CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY FROM S.H.Biimham Cornell University Library PR 1225.R51 High tide; songs of oy and vision from t 3 1924 013 296 888 Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in tlie Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013296888 HIGH TIDE HIGH TIDE iONGS OP JOT AND VISION FKOM THE PRESENT-DAT POETS OF AMERICA AND GREAT BRITAIN SELECTED AND ARRANGED BT MES. WALDO KICHARDS BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUSHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY GBRTR^B MOORB RICHARDS ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Published March iqib SECOND IMPRESSION, APRIL I916 THIRD IMPRESSION, JUNE I916 FOURTH IMPRESSION, AUGUST I916 FIFTH IMPRESSION, JANUARY I917 SIXTH IMPRESSION, JULY I917 SEVENTH IMPRESSION, JUNE I918 EIGHTH IMPRESSION, FEBRUARY I919 NINTH IMPRESSION, SEPTEMBER I919 TENTH IMPRESSION, FEBRUARY 192O ELEVENTH IMPRESSION, MARCH I92I TO MY DEAR FBIEND BMIIiY V. HAMMOND FOREWORD This little book is an outcome of my affectionate study of the last two years of our Poets of To-day. It has for its underlying purpose the placing before the poetry- lover, and the would-be lover of poetry, certain poems that make special appeal with their emphasis of inspiration, joy, and vision, so necessary to our everyday hving. I feel that if we would aU make an everyday habit of turning to poetry which so runs the gamut of all human experience, it would make for the betterment and enlivening of the daily tasks and help us to formulate and maintain a creed of joyful living, from which to radiate useful work. The simple lyric quality of poetry in itself gratifies and inspires, and, when yoked with lovely thoughts, often strikes the vital spark which kindles enthusiasm and deepens inspira- tion to the point of action and achievement. In true poetry there are worlds and worlds of beauty to enter and explore, and often the adventurer into these worlds of wonder and charm seeks a guiding hand, the touch of one who has adventured and explored and made discoveries too precious to be kept to one's self, and whose mission can be truly fulfilled only by sharing them with others. It has been inferred that poetry to-day is "mainly the plaintive voice of an ineffective pessimism." It is to be hoped that the contents of this voliune will prove the contrary. . One regret is left, that the book must have an end, for there are many poets and poems that I have been obliged to omit. Gebtbvde Moobe Rigbabds ACKNOWLEDGMENTS To both publishers and poets sincere thanks and appreciation are given for their kind and generous cooperation in permitting the use of the many copyrighted poems from the voliunes enumerated below: To the Aster Press for poems from The Hour has Struck, and Other Poems, Angela Morgan. To The Gorham Press (Richard G. Badger) for poems from The Man and the Rose, Alanson Tucker Schumann. To The Bobbs-MerriU Company for poems from the Biographical Edition of the Complete Works of James Whitcomh Riley. To Messrs. Bums & Gates (London) for poems from Poems, Alice Meynell, and The Flower of Peace, Katharine Tynan. To The Century Com- pany for poems from Challenge, Louis TJntermeyer. To The Thomas Y. Crowell Company, for the poem " Gypsy-Heart,'' from America the Beautiful, and Other Poems, Katherine Lee Bates. To Messrs. Dodd, Mead & Co. for poems from Rhymes of a Rolling Stone, Robert W. Service, and Lyrics of the Hearthside, Paul Laurence Dunbar. To The George H. Doran Company, for poems from In Deep Places, AmeUa Josephine Burr, and Trees, and Other Poems, Joyce Kilmer. To Messrs. Doubleday, Page & Co., for poems from Songs of Nature, John Burroughs; Shoes of Happiness, and Lincoln, and Other Poems, Edwin Markham; and Collected Plays and Poems, and Earth and New Earth, Cale Young Rice. To Messrs. DufBeld & Co., for the poem, "Behind the Closed Eye" from Songs of the Fields, Francis Ledwidge. To Messrs. E. P. Dutton & Co., for poems from Some- time, and Other Poems, May Riley Smith, and A Chant of Love for England, and Other Poems, Helen Gray Cone. To Messrs. Harper & Brothers, for poems from Star-Glow and Song, Charles Buxton Going ;_Poe7res, Dana Burnet; and for the poem " There is Pansies," by Mildred Howells, from Harper's Magazine. To Messrs. Henry Holt & Co., for poems from A Boy's Will, Robert Frost. To Houghton Mifflin Company, for poems from The Shoes that Danced, and Other Poems, Anna Hempstead Branch; Son^s of Sixpence, Abbie Farwell Brown; The Unconguered Air, Florence Earle Coates; Afternoons of April, Grace Hazard Conkling; Happy Ending, Louise Imoget Guiney; A Troop of the Guard, and Other Poems, Hermann Hagedom; The Sea ia Kind, T. Sturge Moore; lAttle Gray Songs from St. Joseph's, Grace Fallow Norton; A Marriage Cycle, Alice Freeman Palmer; The Singing Man and The Singing Leaves, Josephine Preston Peabody; Scum o' the Earth, and Other Poems, Robert Haven Schauffler; Lyrics of Joy, Frank Dempster Sherman; Stillwater Pas- torals, Paul Shivell; and Poems, Clinton ScoUard. To B. W. Huebsch, for poems from Songs to Save a Sovl, Irene Rutherford McLeod. To Mitchell Kennerley for poems from The Rough Rider, and Other Poems, Bliss Carman; The Earth Cry, Theodosia Garrison; The Quia Singer, and Other Poems, Charles Hanson Towne; and for the poem "An Easter Canticle," by Mr. Towne, from The Lyric Year. To The John Lane Company, for poems from Auguries, Laurence Bin- yon; Collected Poems, Rupert Brooke; Carmina, Thomas Augustine Daly; The Lonely Dancer, Richard Le Gallienne; The House that Was, and Other Poems, Benjamin R. C. Low; The Bird of Time, Sarojinl Naidu; New Poems, Francis Thompson; The Prince's Garden, and Poems, William Watson. To Messrs. Little, Brown & Co., for poems from A Round of Rimes, Denis A. McCarthy. To Longmans, Green & Co. (London) for poems from The One and the Many, Eva Gore- Booth. To Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co., for poems from Dumb in June, Richard Burton; and Dreams in Homespun, Sam Walter Foss. To The Maomillan Company, for poems from Collected Poems, A. E. (George William Russell); Poems, Madison Cawein; Crack o' Dawn, and Myself and I, Fannie Steams Davis; Collected Poems, Norman Gale; Border Lands and Thoroughfares, Wilfrid Wilson Gib- son; Satires of Circumstance, Thomas Hardy; A Dome of Many-Col- oured Gi(M«, Amy Lowell; The Present Hour, Percy MacKaye; The Story of a Round House, and Other Poems, and Good Friday, and Other Poems, John Masefield; Songs and Satires, Edgar Lee Masters; Yol and I, Harriet Monroe; Songs of the Glens of Antrim, Moira O'Neill, Songs from the Clay, James Stephens; Gitanjali, Rabindranath Ta- gore; The Pilgrim Kings, Thomas Walsh; Poems, George Edward Woodberry; and Poems, W. B. Yeats. To Elkin Mathews (London), for poems from Foliage, William H. Davies. To David McKay, for poems from Songs from Leinster, W. M. Letts. To Messrs. John P. Morton & Co., for the poem " Morning Glories," from Poet and Nature, Madison Cawein. To Thomas Bird Mosher, for poems from The Rose Jar, Thomas S. Jones, Jr. ; A Handful of Lavender, Lizette Woodworth Reese; The Flower from the Ashes, Edith M. Thomas; and Songs from an Italian Garden, A. Mary F. Robinson. To The Musson Book Company, for the poem " Workworn," from Flint and Feather, E. Pauline Johnson (Tekahionwake). To the Oxford University Press, for poems from the Poetical Works of Robert Bridges. To Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons for poems from The Garden of Years, and Other Poems, Guy Wetmore Carry! ; Each in His Own Tongue, and Other Poems, William Herbert Carruth; Johnnie Courteau, and Other Poems, William Henry Drummond; and Helen of Troy, and Other Poems, Sara Teasdale. To Grant Richards (London), for the poem "The Little Red Lark," from The Wind in the Trees, Katharine Tynan. To Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons, for poems from Path, Flower, and Other Poems, Olive Tilford Dargan; Moods, Songs, and Doggerels, John Galsworthy; One Woman to Another, and Other Poems, and The Call of Brotherhood, and Other Poems, Corinne Roosevelt Robinson; The Children of the Night, Edwin Arlington Robinson; and Music, and Other Poems, Henry van Dyke. To Messrs. Sherman, French & Co., for poems from The Great Grey King, and Other Poems, Samuel Valentine Cole; and The Sharing, Agnes Lee. To Messrs. Small, Maynard & Co., for poems from Poems, John Banister Tabb. To The Frederick A. Stokes Company for poems from the Collected Poems of Alfred Noyes (copyright, 1913). To The John C. Winston Company, for the poem " Wind-Litany,'' from The Factories, witl Other Lyrics, Margaret Widdemer. To The House and Garden (Conde Nast, publisher) for the poem "' Gates and Doors," by Joyce Kil- mer; and to the National Sunday Magazine, for the poem "Roofs," by Joyce Kilmer. To The Bellman for the poem, " To a Phoebe-Bird," by Witter Bynner. To McClure's Magazine for the poem " The Vi- sion," by William Stanley Braithwaite. Personal acknowledgment is also made to the following poets and individual owners of copyrights for the poems as enumerated; To Richard Burton, for "The Human Touch"; to Bliss Carman, for "Roadside Flowers"; to Mrs. Madison Cawein, for the poem "Magic Purse," from The Cup of Comus, Madison Cawein; to Nathan Haskell Dole, for the poem "The Vision of Peace," from The Building of the Organ, published by Messrs. Moffat, Yard & Co.; to Miss Caroline Giltinan, for the poem " Over Night, a Rose," published in the Boston Evening Transcript; to Robert Underwood Johnson, for the poem " Hearth-Song,'' from Poems, published by The Bobbs-Merrill Company; to Miss Ethel M. Kelley, for the poems, in manuscript, " Whose Little Girl," and " In the Bath"; to Miss Moira O'Neill, for the poem " The Little Son"; to Miss Jessie B. Rittenhouse, for the poem "Values"; to Clinton ScoUard for the poem "Winter in the Marsh"; to Rev. Tertius van Dyke for the poem "Love of Life," published in Anthology of Magazine Verse for 191S, William Stanley Braithwaite; and to Frederic A. Whiting for the poem " My Rosary," by Kate Whiting Pat-ch. CONTENTS Affinity. A.E 34 Ah, Sweet is Tipperary. Denis A. McCarthy 57 Aim, The. Irene Rviherford McLeod 155 Anchored to the Infinite. Edwin Markfiam 20 Aubade. Madison Cawein 1 Awake, my heart, to be loved, awake! awake! Robert Bridges .134 Ballad of Father Gmigan, The. W. B. Yeats 113 Behind the Closed Eye. Francis Ledwidge 159 Bell, A. ClinUm Scollard 192 Bird at Dawn, To a. Richard Le Gallienne 2 Birds. Moira O'Neill 106 Birth of Pierrot, The. Thomas Walsh 148 Bowl of Water, The. Laurence Binyon 81 Butterfly, The. Alice Freeman Palmer 16 By an Open Window in Church. Corinne Roosevelt Robinson . 78 Call of the Spring, The. Alfred Noyes 62 Catch for Singing, A. Wilfrid Wilson Gibson 166 Central I, The. John Masefidd 19 Child, The, George Edward Woodberry 23 ziii Chromatics. Emily Selmger 171 Comfort of the Stars, The. Richard Burton 116 Confession. Frank Dempster Sherman 45 Courage. John Galsworthy 51 Creed, A. Edwin Markham 49 Daffodils. lAzeite Woodworth Reese 11 Dawn in the Desert. Clinton ScoUard 90 Day. Fannie Steams Davis 117 Days and Nights. T. Sturge Moore 77 Debutante, The. Chiy Wetmore Carryl 8 Discovery. Hermann Hagedom 162 Due North. Benjamin R. C. Low 71 Dusk. A. E. 178 Each in his own Tongue. William Herbert CamUh .... 98 Easter Canticle, An. Charles Hanson Towne 89 Een Napoli. Thomas Augustine Daly 173 Evolution. John Banister Tabb 99 "Exoreinfantium." Francis Thompson 24 Exaltation. Paul ShiveU 20 Faith. John Banister Tdbb 18 Fields o' Bally clare. The. Denis A. McCarthy 174 First Bluebird, The. James Whitcomb Riley 7 First Sight. Anna Hempstead Branch 164 xiv Flos ^vorum. Richard Le GalUenne 135 "Frost To-night." Edith M. Thomas 132 Game, The. Olive Tilford Dargan 14 Garden of the Rose. Charles Buxton Going 73 Gates and Doors. Joyce Kilmer 185 Gitanjali, Songs from. Babindranath Tagore . . 38, 70, 153, 181 Gladness. Anna Hempstead Branch 30 Gloomy Easter, On a. Alice Freeman Palmer 140 Golden Shoes, The. Josephine Preston Peabody 47 Grandeur. W. M. Letts 194 Grandfather's Love. Sara Teasdale 83 Great Voice, The. Clinton Scollard 110 Greater Birth, The. Hermann Hagedom 36 Greeting, A. William H. Davies 157 Guidance. Alanson Tucker Schumann 183 Gypsy-Heart. Katharine Lee^ Bates 29 Hammer and Anvil. Samuel Valentine Cole 145 Hark to the Merry Birds. Robert Bridges 31 Hearth-Song. Robert Underwood Johnson 94 Heritage, The. Abbie Farioell Brown 33 Heroism. lAzette Woodworth Reese 116 Hills. Arthur Guiterman 118 Home. Fannie Steams Davis 40 House and the Road, The. Josephine Preston Peabody . . . 143 XV House by the Side of the Road, The. Sam Walter Foss ... 196 Human Touch, The. Richard Burton Ill Hymn. Paid Laurence Dunbar 187 Ideal, To The. Norman Gale 147 Immortal, The. Cole Young Rice 176 In a Time of Flowers. Sarojini Naidu 12 In Service. W. M. Letts 119 In the Bath. Ethel M. Kelky 168 In the Cool of the Evening. Alfred Noyes 86 Kind Moon, The. Sara Teasdale 84 Kings, The. Louise Imogen Guiney 49 Kinship. Angela Morgan 141 Lavender. Alfred Noyes 175 Lie-Awake Songs. Amelia Josephine Burr 125 Life, a Question? Corinne Roosevelt Robinson 108 Little Bateese. William Henry Drummond 168 Little Garden, The. Amy Lowell 67 Little Lac Grenier. William Henry Drummond 67 Little Red Lark, The. Katharine Tynan 69 Little Son, The. Moira O'NeiU 82 Little Song of Life, A. lAzette Woodworth Reese 74 Little Waves of Breffny, The. Eva Gore-Booth 108 Love. Henry van Dyke 39 xvi Love and Infinity. Cale Young Rice 163 Love of Life. Tertiits van Dyke 102 Lover tells of the Rose in his Heart, The. W. B. Yeats ... 74 Madeline. Edgar Lee Masters 170 Magic. Irene Rutherford McLeod 188 Magic Purse, The. Madison Cawein 144 Making of Birds, The. Katharine Tynan 105 March. May Riley Smith 87 March of Men, The. Charles Buxton Going 112 May Madrigal, A. Frank Dempster Sherman 130 Morning Glories. Madison Cawein 177 Morning Serenade. Madison CawHn 1 Mother, The. RobeH W. Service 42 Music. Robert Haven Schauffler 38 My Rosary. Kate Whiting Patch 122 My Youth. WiUiam H. Davies 166 Narrow Window, A. Florence Earle Coates 193 Nasturtiums. Alanson Tucker Schumann 131 New-bom Baby Girl, To a. Grace Hazard Conkling .... 21 Nightingale Unheard, The. Josephine Preston Peabody . . . 101 Old Friendship Street. Theodosia Garrison 100 Old Sight. Edith M. Thomas 164 Old Song, An, Thomas S. Jones, Jr 96 xvii On a Gloomy Easter. Alice Freeman Palmer 140 On Arranging a Bowl of Violets. Grace Hazard ConMing , . 130 One Year Old. Laurence Binyon 123 Overnight, a Rose. Caroline GUtinan 17 Phoebe-Bird, To a. Witter Bynner 161 Pilgrim, The. Charles M. Luce 184 Pine-Trees and the Sky: Evening. Rupert, Brooke 61 Poet, To a. Agnes Lee 191 Poetry of Earth, The. Florence Earle Coates 201 Prayer. Louis Untermeyer 109 Prayer, A. Frank Dempster Sherman 100 Prayer in Spring, A. Robert Frost 85 Rain Revery. Percy MacKaye 127 Renewal. Charles Hanson Tovme 102 Renouncement. Alice MeyneH 183 Riches. Robert Loveman 59 Road, The. James Stephens 189 Road Song, A. Madison Cawein 158 Roadside Flowers. Bliss Carman 92 Roofs. Joyce Kilmer 40 Rosa Rosarum. A. Mary F. Robinson 95 Rosary, My. Kate Whiting Patch 122 Rose of Stars, The. George Edward Woodberry 91 Runaway, The. Cole Young Rice 56 zviii Seven Years. Laurence Binyon 121 Sometimes. Thomas S. Jones, Jr 138 Song. Rupert Brooke 35 Song. Dana Burnet 181 Song. Robert Loveman 60 Song. William Watson 127 Song, A. James Whitcomb Riley 139 Song of the Thrush, The. T. A. Daly 13 Songs for Fragoletta. Richard Le Gallienne 150 Songs for my Mother: Her Words. Anna Hempstead Branch . 43 Songs from Gitanjali. Rabindranath Tagore . . 38, 70, 153, 181 Sonnet. Edwin Arlington Robinson 93 Stanzas from "The Nightingale Unheard." Josephine Preston Pedbody 101 Stanzas from "The Twelfth Night Star." Bliss Carman . . 199 Stretch out your Hand. Corinne Roosevdt Robinson .... 192 Swimg to the Void. Edwin Markham 110 Temple Garlands. A. Mary F. Robinson 199 Tewksbury Road. John Masefidd 104 There is no Age. Eva Gore-Booth 28 There is Pansies. Mildred Howells 129 Three Counsellors. A. E 54 Three Flowers. William Watson 97 Through the Window. Florence Earle Coates 84 To a Bird at Dawn. Richard Le Gallienne 2 six To a New-bom Baby Girl. Gratx Hazard Conkling .... 21 To a Phoebe-Bird. Witter Bynner 161 To a Poet. Agnes Lee 191 To the Ideal. Norman Gale 147 Transience. Sarojini Naidu 78 Trees. Joyce Kilmer 160 Twelfth Night Star, The. Bliss Carman 199 Two Boyhoods. Alice MeyneU 26 Two Songs for a ChUd. Sara Teasdale 83 Tuft of Flowers, The. Robert Frost 65 Unexplored, Unconquered, The. John Masefidd 18 Unity. Alfred Noyes 5 Values. Jessie B. Rittenhouse 182 Vesture of the Soul, The. A. E 138 Victory in Defeat. Edwin Markham 190 Violin, The. Robert Haven Schauffler 136 Vision, The. William Stanley Braithwaite 164 Vision of Peace, The. Nathan Haskell Dole 200 Voice, The. Norman Gale 44 Voice of the Unborn, The. Amelia Josephine Burr .... 79 Voices. Louis Untermeyer 156 Waiting. John Burroughs 198 "We yet can triumph." Paul Shivell 158 What say Bright Leaves of Day? Grace Fallow Norton ... 46 Whose Little Girl? Ethel M. Kelley 167 Why Not? Harriet Monroe 11 Wife, The. Theodosia Garrison 120 Wind-litany. Margaret Widdemer 179 Windows. Abbie Farwell Brown 65 Winter in the Marsh. Clinton Scollard 9 Word, The. John Masefidd 182 Work. Henry van Dyke 112 Work: A Song of Triumph. Angda Morgan 52 Workwom. E. Paidine Johnson (Tekahionwdke) 75 Year's Awakening, The. Thomas Hardy 6 Yellow Pansy, A. Helen Gray Cone 58 You, Four Walls, wall not in my heart 1 Josephine Preston Peabody 133 Youth. Thomas S. Jones, Jr 27 Index of Authors 203 To get at the eternal strength of things And fearlessly to make strong songs of it, Is, to my mind, the mission of that man The world would call a poet. He may sing But roughly, and withal ungraciously; But if he touch to hfe the one right chord Wherein God's music slumbers, and awake To truth one drowsed ambition, he sings well. Edwin Arlington Robinson HIGH TIDE AUBADE [ MOKNINQ SEBENADB ] Awake! the dawn is on the hills! Behold, at her cool throat a rose, Blue-eyed and beautiful she goes, Leaving her steps in daffodils. — Awake! arise! and let me see Thine eyes, whose deeps epitomize All dawns that were or are to be, O love, all Heaven in thine eyes! — Awake! arise! come down to me! Behold! the dawn is up: behold! How all the birds around her float, Wild rills of music, note on note, Spilling the air with meUow gold. — Arise! awake! and, drawing near. Let me but hear thee and rejoice! Thou, who keep'st captive, sweet and clear. All song, love, within thy voice! Arise! awake! and let me hear I 1 See, where she comes, with limbs of day, The dawn! with wild-rose hands and feet, Within whose veins the sunbeams beat. And laughters meet of wind and ray. Arise! come down! and, heart to heart, Love, let me clasp in thee all these — The sunbeam, of which thou art part. And all the rapture of the breeze! — Arise! come doAvn! loved that thou art! Madison Caweif TO A BIRD AT DAWN BIRD that somewhere yonder sings, In the dim hour 'twixt dreams and dawn, Lone in the hush of sleeping things,' In some sky sanctuary withdrawn; Your perfect song is too like pain. And will not let me sleep again. 1 think you must be more than bird, A Uttle creature of soft wings, Not yoiu-s this deep and thrilling word — Some morning planet 't is that sings; Smely from no small feathered throat Wells that august, eternal note. 2 As some old language of the dead, In one resounding syllable, Says Rome and Greece and aU is said — A simple word a child may spell; So in your hquid note impearled Sings the long epic of the world. Unfathomed sweetness of your song. With ancient anguish at its core. What womb of elemental wrong. With shudder unimagined, bore Peace so divine — what hell hath trod This voice that softly talks with God! AU silence in one silver flower Of speech that speaks not, save as speaks The moon in heaven, yet hath power To teU the soul the thing it seeks. And pack, as by some wizard's art, The whole within the finite part. To you, sweet bird, one well might feign — With such authority you sing So clear, yet so profound, a strain Into the simple ear of spring — Some secret understanding given Of the hid purposes of Heaven. 3 And all my life until this day, And all my life until I die, All joy and sorrow of the way, Seem calling yonder in the sky; And there is something the song saith That makes me unafraid of death. Now the slow light fills all the trees, The world, before so still and strange, With day's famiUar presences. Back to its common self must change. And little gossip shapes of song The porches of the morning throng. Not yours with such as these to vie That of the day's small business sing. Voice of man's heart and of God's sky — But you make so deep a thing Of joy, I dare not think of pain Until I hear you sing again. RiCHABD Le GaLUENNE UNITY I Heaet of my heart, the world is young; Love lies hidden in every rose! Every song that the skylark simg Once, we thought, must come to a close: Now we know the spirit of song, Song that is merged in the chant of the whole, Hand ia hand as we wander along. What should we doubt of the years that roll? n Heart of my heart, we cannot die! Love triumphant in flower and tree, Every life that laughs at the sky Tells us nothing can cease to be: One, we are one with the song to-day, One with the clover that scents the wold. One with the Unknown, far away. One with the stars, when earth grows old. m Heart of my heart, we are one with the wind. One with the clouds that are whirled o'er the lea, One in many, broken and blind. One as the waves are at one with the sea! 6 Ay! When life seems scattered apart, Darkens, ends as a tale that is told. One, we are one, heart of my heart. One, still one, while the world grows old. Alfbed Noyes THE YEAR'S AWAKENING How do you know that the pilgrim track Along the belting zodiac Swept by the sun in his seeming rounds Is traced by now to the Fishes' bounds And into the Ram, when weeks of cloud Have wrapt the sky in a clammy shroud, And never as yet a tinct of spring Has shown in the Earth's apparelling; O vespering bird, how do you know, How do you know? How do you know, deep underground, Hid in your bed from sight and sound, Without a turn in temperature. With weather life can scarce endure, That light has won a fraction's strength. And day put on some moments' length. Whereof in merest rote will come, Weeks hence, mild airs that do not numb; O crocus root, how do you know, How do you know? Thomas Habdt THE FIRST BLUEBIRD Jest rain and snow! and rain again! And dribble! drip! and blow! Then snow! and thaw! and slush! and then — Some more rain and snow! This morning I was 'most af eard To wake up — when, I jing! I seen the sun shine out and heerd The first bluebird of spring! — Mother she'd raised the winder some — And in acrost the orchard come. Soft as an angel's wing, A breezy, treesy, beesy hum, Too sweet for anything! The winter's shroud was rent — The sun burst forth in glee, And when that bluebird sung, my heart Hopped out o' bed with me! James Whitcomb Rilbt 7 THE DEBUTANTE To-DAT dawned not upon the earth as other days have done: A throng of little virgin clouds stood waiting for the sun, Till the herald-winds aligned theni, and they blushed, and stood aside. As the marshals of the morning flung the eastern portals wide. So Nature Ut her playhouse for the play that May begins, And the twigs of honeysuckle sawed like Uttle violins: In the dawn there dwelt a whisper of a presence that was new, For the slender Spring was at the wing, and waiting for her cuel As yet I could not see her, and the stage was wide and bare; As yet the Winter's chorus echoed faintly on the air With a dying wail of tempest, and of dry and tortured trees. But a promise of new music lent enchantment to the breeze. In the scene's secluded comers lay the snowdrifts, still secure; But the murmur of their melting sang another overture Than the brooks of brown November, and I listened, and I knew That blue-eyed Spring was at the wing, and waiting for her cue! The world was all attention, and the hemlocks stood, a-row. Ushers, never changing costiune thi ^agh the Season's wonder- show. While the day, below the hillside, tried her colors, one by one. On the clouds experimenting, till the coming of the sun. 8 In the vines about my window, where the sparrows all convene, They were practicing the chorus that should usher in the Queen, And the sod-imprisoned flowers craved the word to shoulder through: Green-girdled Spring was at the wing, and waiting for her cue! She shall enter to the clarion of the crystal-ringing brooks, She shall tread on frail arbutus in the moist and mossy nooks; She shall touch the bleak drop-curtain of the Winter with her wand TiU it lifts, and shows the wonder of the apple blooms beyond! Yet with all her golden sunlight, and her twilights of perfume. Yet with all the mystic splendor of her nights of starlit gloom. She shall bring no sweeter moment than this one in which I knew That laughing Spring was at the wing, and waiting for her cue! Gut Wetmore Cabetl WINTER IN THE MARSH I STBODE through the depths of the marsh in the stark wintertide of the year; The pools were as glass, and the grass was umber and shrivelled and sere; And the trees waved theico'skeleton arms in the whirl and the swirl of the flaw. While around was never a sound save the crow with its ominous The land seemed the land of the lost, of despair, desolation and dole, And its gloom, like an evil at night, crept into the room of my soul. Then a word, like a had in the dusk, when the shadows have mantled the hill, Made a song — just a word — but I felt the dead heart in me tremble and thrill. Thrill to life, and my fibres and thews were as those of one ready to leap. For I knew, on a sudden, the dolor was but as the blessing of sleep, The slumber of sod and of rush and of fern and of leaf on the tree. And they waited but only the word to burst from their bonds and be free. And the word, it shall come on a day when the wind shall blow up from the south. With the winnow of shimmering wings, and a slim pipe of gold at its mouth; It may be at droop of the dusk, or it may be at lift of the sun, But all of earth's tendrils shall quicken, and all of earth's waters shall run. God moulded the word, and He spake it to be a transfiguring thing, A joy in man's ears, and a symbol eternal, the magical "Spring"! Clinton Scollard 10 WHY NOT? Poet, sing me a song to-day I But the world grows old and my hair is gray. Ah, no! there are birds on the lilac bushes And a snow-drop out of the wet earth pushes. Two chattering robins are planning a marriage. And see! there's a baby all pink in its carriage! And the sim is wiping the clouds from his brow, And who can look back when it's always now? Oh, what is the use of a poet, say, K he win not sing me a song to-day? Haeeiet Monboe DAFFODILS Fathered by March, the daffodils are here. First, all the air grew keen with yesterday. And once a thrush from out some hollow gray On a field's edge, where whitening stalks made cheer. Fluted the last unto the budding year; Now, that the wind lets loose from orchard spray Plmn bloom and peach bloom down the dripping way, Their punctual gold through the wet blades they rear. 11 Oh, fleet and sweet! A light to all that pass Below, in the cramped yard, close to the street, Long-stemmed one flames behind the palings bare, The whole of April in a tuft of grass. Scarce here, soon will it be — oh, sweet and fleet! — Gone like a snatch of song upon the stair. LiZETTE WOODWOBTH ReEBB IN A TIME OF FLOWERS Love! do you know the Spring is here With the lure of her magic flute? . . . The old earth breaks into passionate bloom At the kiss of her fleet, gay foot. The burgeoning leaves on the almond boughs, And the leaves on the blue wave's breast Are crowned with the limpid and delicate light Of the gems in your turban-crest. The bright pomegranate buds unfold, The frail wild lilies appear, Like the blood-red jewels you used to fling O'er the maidens that danced at the feast of spring To welcome the new-born year. O Lovel do you know the Spring is here? . . . The dawn and the dusk grow rife 12 With scent and song and tremulous mirth, The blind, rich travail of life. The winds are dnmk with the odorous breath Of henna, sarisha, and neem . . . Do they ruflSe your cold, strange, tranquil sleep. Or trouble your changeless dream With poignant thoughts of the world you loved, And the beauty you held so dear? Do you long for a brief, glad hour to wake From your lonely slimiber for sweet love's sake, To welcome the new-bom year? Saeojini Naidu THE SONG OF THE THRUSH AhT the May was grand this mornin'I Shure, how could I feel forlorn in Such a land, when tree and flower tossed their kisses to the breeze? Could an Irish heart be quiet While the Spring was runnin' riot, An' the birds of free America were singin' in the trees? In the songs that they were singin' ♦ No familiar note was ringin', But I strove to imitate them an' I whistled like a lad. ; O! my heart was warm to love them For the very newness of them — For the ould songs that they helped me to forget — an' I was glad. 13 So I mocked the feathered choir To my hungry heart's desn-e, An' I gloried in the comradeship that made their joy my own, Till a new note somided, stiUin' All the rest, A thrush was triUin'! Ah! the thrush I left behind me in the fields about Athlonel Where, upon the whitethorn swayin'. He was minstrel of the Mayin', In my days of love an' laughter that the years have laid at rest; Here again his notes were ringin'I But I'd lost the heart for singin' — Ah! the song I could not answer was the one I knew the best. T. A. Daly THE GAME 'T IS played with eyes; one uttered word Would cast the game away. As silent as a sailing bird. The shift and change of play. So many eyes to me are dear, So many do me bless; The hazel, deep as deep wood-mere Where leaves are flutterless; 14 The brown that most bewildereth With dusking, golden play Of shadows like betraying breath From some shy, hidden day; The black whose torch is ever trimmed, Let stars be soon or late; The blue, a morning never dimmed, Opposing Heaven to fate; The gray as soft as farthest skies That hold horizon rain; Or when, steel-darkling, stoic-wise, They bring the gods again; And wavelit eyes of nameless glow, Fed from far-risen streams; But oh, the eyes, the eyes that know The silent game of dreams! Three times I've played. Once 't was a child, Lap-held, not half a year From Heaven, looked at me and smiled. And far I went with her. Out past the twiUght gates of birth. And past Time's blindfold day. Beyond the star-ring of the earth, We found us room to play. 15 And once a woman, spent and old With unavailing tears, Who from her hair's down-tangled fold Shook out the gray-blown years, Sat by the trampled way alone. And lifted eyes — what themes! I could not pass, I sat me down To play the game of dreams. And once ... a poet's eyes they were, Though earth heard not his strain; And since he went no eyes can stir My own to play again. Olive Tilfobs Dasqam THE BUTTERFLY I HOLD you at last in my hand, Exquisite child of the air. Can I ever understand How you grew to be so f dr? You came to my linden tree To taste its delicious sweet, I sitting here in the shadow and shine Playing around its feet. IS Now I hold you fast in my hand, You marvelous butterfly, Till you help me to understand The eternal mystery. From that creeping thing in the dust To this shining bliss in the bluel God give me courage to trust I can break my chrysalis too! AucE Fbeeman Falmeb OVERNIGHT, A ROSE That overnight a rose could come I one time did believe. For when the fairies live with one, They wilfully deceive. But now I know this perfect thing Under the frozen sod In cold and storm grew patiently Obedient to God. My wonder grows, since knowledge came Old fancies to dismiss; And courage comes. Was not the rose A winter doing this? Nor did it know, the weary while, What color and perfume 17 With this completed loveliness Lay in that earthy tomb, i So maybe I, who cannot see What God wills not to show, May, some day, bear a rose for Him It took my life to grow. Caboune Giltinan FAITH In every seed to breathe the flower. In every drop of dew To reverence a cloistered star Within the distant blue; To wait the promise of the bow, Despite the cloud between. Is Faith — the fervid evidence Of loveliness unseen. John Banisteb Tabb THE UNEXPLORED', UNCONQUEEED Out of the clouds come torrents, from the earth Fire and quakings, from the shrieking air Tempests that harry half the planet's girth. Death's unseen seeds are scattered everywhere. Yet in his iron cage the mind of man Measures and braves the terrors of all these; 18 The blindest fury and the subtlest plan He turns or tames or shows in their degrees. Yet in himself are forces of like power, Untamed, unreckoned; seeds that brain to brain Pass across oceans, bringing thought to flower — New worlds, new selves, where he can live again Eternal beauty's everlasting rose Which casts this world as shadow as it grows. John Masefield THE CENTRAL I LITTLE self, within whose smallness lies All that man was, and is, and will become, Atom unseen that comprehends the skies And tells the tracks by which the planets roam; That, withput moving, knows the joys of wings, The tiger's strength, the eagle's secrecy. And in the hovel can consort with kings Or clothe a god with his own mystery: O with what darkness do we cloak thy Ught, What dusty folly gather thee for food. Thou who alone art knowledge and deUght, The heavenly bread, the beautiful, the good! O Uving self, O god, morning star, Give us thy light, forgive us what we are I John Masefieid 19 ANCHORED TO THE INFINITE The builder who first bridged Niagara's gorge, Before he swung his cable, shore to shore, Sent out across the gulf his venturing kite Bearing a slender cord for unseen hands To grasp upon the further cliS and draw A greater cord, and then a greater yet; Till at the last across the chasm swung The cable — then the mighty bridge in aarl So we may send oiu' Uttle timid thought Across the void, out to God's reaching hands — Send out our love and faith to thread the deep — Thought after thought until the little cord Has greatened to a chain no chance can break, And — we are anchored to the Infinite! Edwin Mabeham EXALTATION Rejoice with wonder, my soul, rejoice! And you, ye starry heavens, thou vast hush, That art so far thou hast for us no voice. Lend me your gUent rapture! With a rush Come, ye seolian winds that bring the blush Of holy morning to the eastern sky! 20 And you, ye springs and fountains that forth gusk To seek the sea! Sweet flowers that smile and die, And 0, thou glorious majesty on high, Which art the life of all this beauteous Earth 1 Come and possess me as the birds that fly. And lift my being into vocal burth, Deep on wide wings ascending, till I tell The glory of our God, that ye have told so well! Paul Shivell TO A NEW-BORN BABY GIRL And did thy sapphire shallop slip Its moorings suddenly, to dip Adown the clear, ethereal sea From star to star, all silently? What tenderness of archangels In silver thrilling syllables Pursued thee, or what diilcet hyma Low-chanted by the cherubim? And thou departing must have heard The holy Mary's farewell word, Who with deep eyes and wistful smile Remembered Earth a little while. Now from the coasts of morning pale Comes safe to port thy tiny sail. 21 Now have we seen by early sun, Thy miracle of life begun. AH breathing and aware thou art, With beauty templed in thy heart To let thee recognize the thrill Of wings along far azure lull, And hear within the hollow sky Thy friends the angels rushing by. These shall recall that thou hast known Their distant coimtry as thine own, To spare thee word of vales and streams, And publish heaven through thy dreams. The human accents of the breeze Through swaying star-acquainted trees Shall seem a voice heard earlier. Her voice, the adoring sigh of her, When thou amid rosy cherub-play Didst hear her call thee, far away, And dream in very Paradise The worship of thy mother's eyes. Gback Hazabd CoNELma THE CHILD It was only the clinging touch Of a child's hand in the street, But it made the whole day sweet; Caught, as he ran full-speed, In my own stretched out to his need, Caught, and saved from the fall, As I held, for the moment's poise. In my circliag arms the whole boy's Delicate slightness, warmed mould; Mine, for an instant mine, The sweetest thing the heart can divine, More precious than fame or gold. The crown of many joys, Lay in my breast, all mine. I was nothing to him; He neither looked up nor spoke; I never saw his eyes; He was gone ere my mind awoke From the action's quick surprise With vision blurred and dim. You say I ask too much: It was only the clinging touch Of a child in a city street; It hath made the whole day sweet. Geohqb Edwabd Woodbbrry 23 "EX ORE INFANTIUM" (a CBIIiP'S pbateb) Little Jesus, wast Thou shy Once, and just so small as 17 And what did it feel like to be Out of Heaven, and just like me? Didst Thou sometimes think of there, And ask where all the angels were? I should think that I would cry For my house all made of sky; I would look about the air, And wonder where my angels were; And at waking 't would distress me — Not an angel there to dress mel Hadst Thou ever any toys. Like us little ^Is and boys? And didst Thou play in Heaven with all The angels, that were not too tall. With stars for marbles? Did the things Play Can you see mef through their wings? And did Thy Mother let Thee spoil Thy robes, with playing on our soil? How nice to have them always new In Heaven, because 't was quite clean blue! ?4 Didst Thou kneel at night to pray, And didst Thou join Thy hands, this way? And did they tire sometimes, being young, And make the prayer seem very long? And dost Thou like it best, that we Should join our hands to pray to Thee? I used to think, before I knew, The prayer not said unless we do. And did Thy Mother at the night Kiss thee, and fold the clothes in right? And didst Thou feel quite good in bed? Kissed, and sweet, and Thy prayers said? Thou canst not have forgotten all That it feels like to be small: And Thou know'st I cannot pray To Thee in my father's way — When Thou wast so little, say, Couldst Thou talk Thy Father's way? — So, a little Child, come down And hear a child's tongue like Thy own; Take me by the hand and walk. And listen to my baby-talk. To Thy Father show my prayer (He will look, Thou art so fair). 25 And say: "0 Father, I, Thy Son, Bring the prayer of a little one." And he will smile, that children's tongue Has not changed since Thou wast young! Fbancis Thompson TWO BOYHOODS Luminous passions reign High in the soul of man; and they are twain. Of these he hath made the poetry of earth — Hath made his nobler tears, his magic mirth. Fair Love is one of these. The visiting vision of seven centuries; And one is love of Nature — love to tears — The modern passion of this hundred years. Oh, never to such height. Oh, never to such spiritual light — The light of lonely visions, and the gleam Of secret, splendid, sombre suns in dream — Oh, never to such long Glory in life, supremacy in song. Had either of these loves attained in joy, But for the ministration of a boy. 26 Dante was one who bare Love in his deep heart, apprehended there When he was yet a child; and from that day The radiant love has never passed away. And one was Wordsworth; he Conceived the love of Nature childishly As no adult heart might; old poets sing That exaltation by remembering. For no divine Intelligence, or art, or fire, or wine, Is high-delirious as that rising lark — The child's soul and its daybreak in the dark. And Letters keep these two Heavenly treasures safe the ages through, Safe from ignoble benison or ban — These two high childhoods in the heart of man. Alice Metnell YOUTH I SHALL remember then. At twilight time or in the hush of dawn. Or yet, mayhap, when on a straying wind The scent of lilac comes, or when Some strain of music startles and is gone. 27 Old dreams, old roses, all so far behind, Blossoms and birds and ancient shadow-trees, Whispers at sunset, the low hum of bees, And sheep that graze beneath a summer sun. Will they too come, they who in yester-year Walked the same paths and in the first of Spring, And shall I hear Their distant voices murmuring? I shall remember then When youth is done, With the dim years grown gray; And I shall wonder what it is that ends. And why they seem so very fax away — Old dreams, old roses . . . and old friends. Thomas S. Jones, Jb. THERE IS NO AGE There is no age, this darkness and decay Is by a radiant spirit cast aside. Young with the ageless youth that yesterday Bent to the yoke of flesh immortal pride. What though in time of thunder and black cloud The Spirit of the Innermost recedes Into the depths of Being, stormy browed. Obscured by a long life of dreams and deeds — 28 There is no age — the swiftly passing hour That measures out our days of pilgrimage And breaks the heart of every summer flower, Shall find again the child's soul in the sage. There is no age, for youth is the divine; And the white radiance of the timeless soul Burns like a silver lamp in that dark shrine That is the tired pilgrim's ultimate goal. Eva Gore-Booth GYPSY-HEAKT The April world is misted with emerald and gold; The meadow-larks are calling sweet and keen; Gypsy-heart is up and off for woodland and for wold, Roaming, roaming, roaming through the green. Gypsy-heart, away! Oh, the wind — the wind and the sun! Take the blithe adventure of the fugitive to-day; Youth wiU soon be done. From buds that May is kissing there trembles forth a soul; The rosy boughs are whispering the white; Gypsy-heart is heedless now of thrush and oriole. Dreaming, dreaming, dreaming of delight. 29 Gypsy-heart, bewarel Oh, the song — the song in the blood! Magic walks the forest; there's bewitchment on the air. Spring is at the flood. The wings of June are woven of fragrance and of fire; Heap roses, crimson roses, for her throne. Gypsy-heart is anguished with tumultuous desire, Seeking, seeking, seeking for its own. Gypsy-heart, abide! Oh, the far — the far is the near! 'T is a foolish fable that the universe is wide. All the world is here. Katharine Lee Bates GLADNESS The world has brought not anything To make me glad to-day! The swallow had a broken wing. And after all my journeying There was no water in the spring — My friend has said me nay. But yet somehow I needs must sing As on a luckier day. Dusk falls as gray as any tear, There is no hope in sight! 30 But something in me seems so fair, That like a star I needs must wear A safety made of shining air Between me and the night. Such inner weavings do I wear All fashioned of delight! I need not for these robes of mine The loveliness of earth, But happenings remote and fine Like threads of dreams wiU blow and shine In gossamer and crystalline, And I waa glad from birth. So even while my eyes repine. My heart is clothed in mirth. Anna Hempstead Branch HARK TO THE MERRY BIRDS Habk to the merry birds, hark how they sing! Although 't is not yet spring And keen the air; Hale Winter, half resigning ere he go, Doth to his heiress shew Hia kingdom fair. 31 In patient russet is his forest spread, All bright with bramble red, With beechen moss And holly sheen: the oak silver and stark Sunneth his aged bark And wrinkled boss. I £ut neath the ruin of the withered brake Primroses now awake From nursing shades: The crumpled carpet of the dry leaves brown Avails not to keep down The hyacinth blades. The hazel hath put forth his tassels rufied; The wiUow's flossy tuft Hath slipped him free: The rose amid her ransacked orange hips Braggeth the tender tips Of bowers to be. A black rook stirs the branches here and there, Foraging to repair His broken home: And hark, on the ash-boughs! Never thrush did sing Louder in praise of spring, When spring is come. ROBEBT BamGES 32 THE HERITAGE No matter what my birth may be, No matter where my lot is cast, I am the heir in equity Of all the precious Past. The art, the science, and the lore Of all the ages long since dust, The wisdom of the world in store, Are mine, all mine in trust. The beauty of the living earth. The power of the golden sun. The Present, whatsoe'er my birth, I share with every one. As much as any man am I The owner of the working day; Mine are the minutes as they fly To save or throw away. And mine the Future to bequeath Unto the generations new; I help to shape it with my breath. Mine as I think or do. 33 Present and Past my heritage, The Future laid in my control; — No matter what my name or age, I am a Mafiter-aoul! Abbie Fabwell Bbown AFFINITY You and I have fomid the secret way,' None can bar oiir love or say us nay: All the world may stare and never know You and I are twined together so. You and I for all his vaunted width Know the giant Space is but a myth; Over miles and miles of pure deceit You and I have found our lips can meet. You and I have laughed the leagues apart In the soft delight of heart to heart. If there's a gulf to meet or limit set, You and I have never found it yet. You and I have trod the backward way To the happy heart of yesterday. To the love we felt in ages past. You and I have found it still to last. U You and I have found the joy had birth In the angel childhood of the earth, Hid within the heart of man and maid. You and I of Time are not afraid. You and I can mock his fabled wing, For a kiss is an immortal thing. And the throb wherein those old Ups met Is a living music in us yet. A.E. SONG "Oh! Love," they said, "is King of Kings, And Triumph is his crown. Earth fades in flame before his wings. And Sun and Moon bow down." — But that, I knew, would never do; And Heaven is all too high. So whenever I meet a Queen, I said, I will not catch her eye. f Oh! Love," they said, and "Love," they said, "The gift of Love is this; A crown of thorns about thy head. And vinegar to thy kiee!" — 36 But Tragedy is not for me; And I 'm content to be gay. So whenever I spied a Tragic Lady, I went another way. And so I never feared to see You wander down the street, Or come across the fields to me On ordinary feet. For wliat they'd never told me of. And what I never knew; It was that all the time, my love, Love would be merely you. RuPBBT Brooke THE GREATER BIRTH I LEFT the crowded streets behind And down the straight white road I went, To open field and wood and sky And weary-limbed content. Dumb was the forest, dumb the glade. Still as a church the arching boughs. Though low winds tossed my tumbled hair And played about my brows. 36 I slept, I woke. The sun was mine, The sky, the bu'ds, the fields my own! And I was neither man nor god — Nature was I, alone. The springs of earth coursed in my veins, From head to heart, from hiU to sea; The trees were my stalwart sons, the flowers — My daughters that played on the lea. The sky was my dear love, bending down; And I sang to her softly, I sang to her loud — And, ah, my voice was the voice of the wind That chases the sea-born cloud. I felt the heart-throbs of the world Beating in me the greater birth; And I sang, I laughed, I cried in my glee That I was part of earth! Yet though the sunshine glistened fair, And clear springs sparkled in the sod, I trembled as I raised my eyes, For I was part of God. Hermann Hagedobn 37 SONG FROM GITANJALI Thou art the sky and thou art the nest as well. thou beautiful, there in the nest it is thy love that en- closes the soul with colours and sounds and odours. There comes the morning with the golden basket in her right hand bearing the wreath of beauty, silently to crown the earth. And there comes the evening over the lonely meadows de- serted by herds, through trackless paths, carrying cool draughts of peace in her golden pitcher from the Western ocean of rest. But there, where spreads the infinite sky for the soul to take her flight in, reigns the stainless white radiance. There is no day nor night, nor form nor colour, and never, never a word. Rabindbanath Tagorb MUSIC "Music is Love in search of a word." Sidney Lanier, Is music "love in search of words"? Not so. For love well knows he never may express In words a tithe of all his tenderness. Nor paint in human speech a passion's glow Lit by his flame. Too deep and still, too low Even for angels' ears, the sacredness Of meaning when two hearts together press And feel from eye to eye love's secret flow. 38 But music is a house not made with hands, Built by love's Father, where a little space The soul may dwell; a royal palace fit To meet the majesty of its demands; The place where man's two lives unite; the place To hold communion with the infinite. RoBEBT Haven Schattkfleb LOVE Let me but love my love without disguise. Nor wear a mask of fashion old or new, Nor wait to speak till I can hear a clue. Nor play a part to shine in others' eyes. Nor bow my knees to what my heart denies; But what I am, to that let me be true. And let me worship where my love is due. And so through love and worship let me rise. For love is but the heart's immortal thirst To be completely known and all forgiven. Even as sinfid souls that enter Heaven: So take me, dear, and understand my worst. And freely pardon it, because confessed. And let me find in loving thee, my best. Henky van Dyke 39 HOME Home, to the hills and the rough, running water; Home, to the plain folk and cold winds again. Oh, I am only a gray farm's still daughter. Spite of my wandering passion and pain! Home, from the city that snares and enthralls me; Home, from the bold light and bold weary crowd. Oh, it's the blown snow and bare field that calls me; White star and shy dawn and wild lonely cloud! Home, to the gray house the pine-trees guard, sighing; Home, to the low door that laughs to my touch. How should I know till my wings failed me, flying. Home-nest, — my heart's nest, — I loved you so much? Fannie Stbabns Davis ROOFS The road is wide and the stars are out and the breath of the night is sweet And this is the time when Wanderlust should seize upon my feet. But I'm glad to turn from the open road and the starlight on my face And leave the splendour of out-of-doors for a human dwelling- place. 40 I never have known a vagabond who really Uked to roam All up and down the streets of the world and never have a home. The tramp who slept in your barn last night and left at break of day Will wander only untU he finds another place to stay. The gypsy-man sleeps in his cart with canvas overhead, Or else he crawls into a tent when it is time for bed. He will take his ease upon the grass so long as the sun is high But when it is dark he wants a roof to keep away the sky. If you call the g3rpsy a vagabond I think you do him wrong, For he never goes a-traveUing but he takes his home along. And the only reason a road is good, as every wanderer knows. Is just because of the homes, the homes, the homes to which it goes! They say life is a highway and its milestones are the years, And now and then there's a toll-gate where you pay your way with tears. It's a rough road and a steep road and it stretches broad and far. But it leads at last to a Golden Town where Golden Houses are. Joyce Eilmsb «1 THE MOTHER There will be a singing in your heart, There will be a rapture in your eyes; You will be a woman set apart, You wiU be so wonderful and wise. You will sleep, and when from dreams you start; As of one that wakes in Paradise, There will be a singing in your heart, There will be a rapture in your eyes. There will be a moaning in your heart. There will be an anguish in your eyes; You will see your dearest ones depart. You will hear their quivering good-byes. Yours will be the heart-ache and the smart. Tears that scald and lonely sacrifice; There will be a moaning in your heart, There will be an anguish in your eyes. There will come a glory in your eyes, There will come a peace within yom heart; Sitting 'neath the quiet evening skies. Time will dry the tear and dull the smart. You will know that you have played your part; Yours shall be the love that never dies: You, with Heaven's peace within your heart. You, with God's own glory in your eyes. SOBERT W. SeBVICB 42 SONGS FOR MY MOTHER HEB W0HD3 My mother has the prettiest tricks Of words and words and words. Her talk comes out as smooth and sleek As breasts of singing birds. She shapes her speech all silver fine Because she loves it so. And her own eyes begin to shine To hear her stories grow. And if she goes to make a call Or out to take a walk, We leave our work when she returns And nm to hear her talk. We had not dreamed these things were so Of sorrow and of mirth. Her speech is as a thousand eyes Through which we see the earth. God wove a web of loveliness, Of clouds and stars and birds, But made not anything at all • So beautiful as words. 43 They shine around our simple earth With golden shadowings, And every common thing they touch Is exquisite with wings. There's nothing poor and nothing small But is made fair with them. They are the hands of hving faith That touch the garment's hem. They are as fair as bloom or air, They shine like any star, And I am rich who learned from her How beautiful they are. Anna Hempstead Branch THE VOICE As I went down the hiU I heard The laughter of the countryside; For, rain being past, the whole land stirred With new emotion, like a bride. I scarce had left the grassy lane, When something made me catch my breath: A woman called, and called again, Elizabeth! Elizabeth! 44 It was my mother's name. A part Of wounded memory sprang to tears, And the few violets of my heart Shook in the wind of happier years. Quicker than magic came the face That once was sun and moon for me; The garden shawl, the cap of lace, The collie's head against her knee. Mother, who findest out a way To pass the sentinels, and stand Behind my chair at close of day. To touch me — almost — with thy hand. Deep in my breast how sure, how clear, The lamp of love burns on till death! -— How trembles if I chance to hear Elisabeth! Elizabeth! Norman Gale CONFESSION When I was young I made a vow To keep youth in my heart as long As there were birds upon the bough To gladden me with song: 45 To learn what lessons Life might give, To do my duty as I saw, To love my friends, to laugh and live Not holding Death in awe. So all my lyrics sing of joy, And shall until my lips are mute; In old age happy as the boy To whom God gave the lute. FsAME Demfstbb Shebuan WHAT SAY BRIGHT LEAVES OF DAY What say Bright leaves of day, By the laughing wind caressed? f'All young things Should dance in the sun: There joy sings To every one." What say Sweet flowers of day, That strive not, yet are blest? 46 "All young things Should hve in the sun: There joy sings To every one." What say At shut of day, Two bird-calls from the west? "All young things Should love in the sun: There joy sings To every one." Grace Fallow Norton THE GOLDEN SHOES The winds are lashing on the sea; The roads are blind with storm. And it's far and far away with me; So bide you there, stay warm. It's forth I must, and forth to-day; And I have no path to choose. The highway hill, it is my way still. Give me my golden shoes. 47 God gave them me on that first day I knew that I was young. And I looked far forth, from west to north; And I heard the Songs unsung. This cloak is worn too threadbare thin, But ah, how weatherwise! This girdle serves to bind it in; What heed of wondering eyes? — And yet beside, I wear one pride — Too bright, think you, to use? — That I must wear, and still keep fair. Give here my golden shoes. God gave them me, on that first day I heard the Stars all chime. And I looked forth far, from road to star; And I knew it was far to climb. They would buy me house and hearth, no doubt, And the mirth to spend and share; Could I sell that gift, and go without, Or wear — what neighbors wear. But take my staff, my purse, my scrip; For I have one thing to choose. For you — Godspeed! May you soothe your need. For me, my golden shoes! He gave them me, that far, first day When I heard all Songs unsung. And I looked far forth, from west to north, God saw that I was young ! Josephine Fbebton Feabodt A CREED There is a destiny that makes us brothers: None goes his way alone: All that we send into the lives of others Comes back into our own. I care not what his temples or his creeds, One thing holds firm and fast — That into his fateful heap of days and deeds The soul of a man is cast. Edwin Mabkham THE KINGS A MAN said unto his angel: "My spirits are fallen thro', And I cannot carry this battle; O brother! what shall I do? 49 "The terrible Kings are on me, With spears that are deadly bright. Against me so from the cradle Do fate and my fathers fight." Then said to the man his angel: "Thou wavering, foolish soul. Back to the ranks! What matter To win or to lose the whole, f As judged by the little judges Who hearken not well, nor see? Not thus, by the outer issue, The Wise shall interpret thee. "Thy will is the very, the only, The solemn event of things; The weakest of hearts defying Is stronger than all these Kings. f Tho' out of the past they gather, Mind's Doubt and Bodily Pain, And paUid Thirst of the Spirit That is kin to the other twain, "And Grief, in a cloud of banners, And ringleted Vain Desires, And Vice, with the spoils upon him Of thee and thy beaten sires, 60 "While Kings of eternal evil Yet darken the hills about, Thy part is with broken sabre To rise on the last redoubt, "To fear not sensible failure. Nor covet the game at all, But fighting, fighting, fighting, Die, driven against the wall!" Louise Imogen Guinet COURAGE CoTjEAGE is but a word, and yet, of words, The only sentinel of permanence; The ruddy watch-fire of cold winter days, We steal its comfort, lift our weary swords. And on. For faith — without it — has no sense; And love to wind of doubt and tremor sways; And life for ever quaking marsh must tread. Laws give it not, before it prayer wUl blush, Hope has it not, nor pride of being true. 'T is the mysterious soul which never sdelds, But hales us on and on to breast the rush Of all the fortunes we shall happen through. And when Death calls across his shadowy fields — Dying, it answers: "Here! I am not dead!" John Galsworthy 61 WORK a song of tbiumph Wobk! Thank God for the might of it, The ardor, the urge, the delight of it — Work that springs from the heart's desire, Setting the brain and the soiil on fire — Oh, what is so good as the heat of it. And what is so glad as the beat of it. And what is so kind as the stern conunand. Challenging brain and heart and hand? Work! Thank God for the pride of it. For the beautiful, conquering tide of it. Sweeping the life in its furious flood, ThrUling the arteries, cleansing the blood, Mastering stupor and dull despair, Moving the dreamer to do and dare. Oh, what is so good as the urge of it. And what is so glad as the surge of it. And what is so strong as the summons deep. Rousing the torpid soul from sleep? Work! Thank God for the pace of it. For the terrible, keen, swift race of it; 62 Fiery steeds in full control, Nostrils a-quiver to greet the goal. Work, the Power that drives behind, Guiding the piu^ioses, taming the mind, Holding the runaway wishes back, Reining the wiU to one steady track, Speeding the energies faster, faster. Triumphing over disaster. Oh, what is so good as the pain of it. And what is so great as the gain of it? And what is so kind as the cruel goad. Forcing us on through the rugged road? Work! Thank God for the swing of it. For the clamoring, hammering ring of it. Passion of labor daily hurled On the mighty anvils of the world. Oh, what is so fierce as the flame of it? And what is so huge as the aim of it? Thimdering on through dearth and doubt. Calling the plan of the Maker out. Work, the Titan; Work, the friend. Shaping the earth to a glorious end. Draining the swamps and blasting the hills, Doing whatever the Spirit wills — 63 Rending a continent apart, To answer the dream oi the Master heart. Thank God for a world where none may shirk — Thank God for the splendor of work! Angela Mobgan THREE COUNSELLORS It was the fairy of the place, Moving within a little light, Who touched with dim and shadowy grace The conflict at its fever height. It seemed to whisper "Quietness," Then quietly itself was gone: Yet echoes of its mute caress Were with me as the years went on. It was the warrior within Who called "Awake, prepare for fight: Yet lose not memory in the din: Make of thy gentleness thy might: "Make of thy silence words to shake The long-enthroned kings of earth: Make of thy will the force to break Their towers of wantonness and mirth." 64 It was the wise, all-seeing soul Who counselled neither war nor peace: " Only be thou thyself that goal In which the wars of time shall cease." A.E. WINDOWS The windows of the place wherein I dwell I will make beautiful. No garish light Shall enter crudely; but with colors bright, And warm and throbbing I will weave a spell. In rainbow harmony the theme to tell Of sage and simple saint and noble knight, Beggar and king who fought the gallant fight. These shall transfigure even my poor cell. But when the shadows of the night begin. And sifted sunlight falls no more on me. May I have learned to light my lamp within; So that the passing world may look and see Still the same radiance, though with paler hue, Of the sweet lives that help men to live true. Abbie Fakwell Bkown fiS THE RUNAWAY What are you doing, little day-moon, Over the April hill? What are you doing, up so soon, Climbing the sky with silver shoon? What are you doing at half-past noon, Slipping along so still? Are you so eager, the heights unwon, That you cannot wait, But, imheeding of wind and sun, Out of your nest of night must run, Up where the day is far from done, Shy little shadow-mate? Up and away, then, — with young mists Tripping along the blue! Dance and dally and promise trysts Unto each that around you lists; For, little moon, not a one but wists April's the time to wool Calb Younq Ricb 60 THE LITTLE GARDEN A LITTLE garden on a bleak hillside Where deep the heavy, dazzling mountain snow Lies far into the spring. The sun's pale glow Is scarcely able to melt patches wide About the single rose bush. All denied Of Nature's tender ministries. But no, — For wonder-working faith has made it blow With flowers many hued and starry-eyed. Here sleeps the sun long, idle summer hours; Here butterflies and bees fare far to rove Amid the crumpled leaves of poppy flowers; Here four o'clocks, to the passionate night above Fling whiffs of perfume, like pale incense showers. A little garden, loved with a great love I Amt Lowell AH, SWEET IS TIPPERARY Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the springtime of the year, When the hawthorn's whiter than the snow, When the feather folk assemble and the air is all artremble With their singing and their winging to and fro; When queenly Slieve-na-mon puts her verdant vesture on, And smiles to hear the news the breezes bring; When the sun begins to glance on the rivulets that dance — Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the spring; 57 Ah, sweet is Tipperaxy in the springtime of the year, When the mists are rising from the lea. When the Golden Vale is smiling with a beauty all begtiiling And the Suir * goes crooning to the sea; When the shadows and the showers only multiply the flowers That the lavish hand of May will fling; When in unfrequented ways, fairy music softly plays — Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the spring! Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the springtime of the year. When life like the year is young. When the soul is just awaking like a lily blossom breaking, And love words linger on the tongue; When the blue of Irish skies is the hue of Irish eyes^ And love dreams cluster and cling Round the heart and round the brain, half of pleasure, half of pain — Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the spring! Denis A. McCabthy A YELLOW PANSY To the wall of the old green garden A butterfly quivering came; His wings on the sombre lichens Played like a yellow flame. ' Pronounced Shure. 68 He'Iooked at the gray geraniums, And the sleepy four-o-' clocks; He looked at the low lanes bordered With the glossy-growing box. He longed for the peace and the silence, And the shadows that lengthened there, And his wee wild heart was weary Of skimming the endless air. And now in the old green garden, — I know not how it came, — A single pansy is blooming, Bright as a yellow flame. And whenever a gay gust passes. It quivers as if with pain. For the butterfly-soul that is in it Longs for the winds again! Helen Gbat Conb RICHES What to a man who loves the air Are trinkets, gauds, and jewels rare? And what is wealth or fame to one Who is a brother to the sun; 59 Who drinks the wine that morning spills Upon the heaven-kissing hills, And sees a ray of hope afar In every glimmer of a star? What to a man whose god is truth Are spoils and stratagems, forsooth — Who looks beyond the doors of death For loftier life, sublimer breath; Who can forswear the state of kings In knowledge of diviner things, The dreams immortal that unroll And burst to blossoms in his soul? ROBEBT LOVEMAN SONG A SUNSHINE heart, And a soul of song. Love for hate, And right for wrong; Softly speak to the weak, Help them along, A sunshine heart. And a soul of song. A sunshine heart, And a soul of song, 60 What though about thee Foemen throng? AH the day, on thy way, Be thou strong; A sunshine heart, And a soul of song. ROBEBT LOVEUAN PINE-TREES AND THE SKY: EVENING I'd watched the sorrow of the evening sky, And smelt the sea, and earth, and the warm clover, And heard the waves, and the sea-gull's mocking cry. And in them all was only the old cry, That song they always sing — "The best is over I You may remember now, and think, and sigh, silly lover!" And I was tired and sick that all was over. And because I, For aU my thinking, never could recover One moment of the good hours that were over. And I was sorry and sick, and wished to die. Then from the sad west turning wearily, 1 saw the pines against the white north sky, 61 Very beautiful, and still, and bending over Their sharp black heads- against a quiet sky. And there was peace in them; and I Was happy, and forgot to play the lover, And laughed, and did no longer wish to die; Being glad of you, pine-trees and the sky! RUFEBT BbOOEE THE CALL OF THE SPRING Come, choose your road and away, my lad. Come, choose your road and away! We'll out of the town by the road's bright crown As it dips to the dazzUng day. It's a long white road for the weary; But it rolls through the heart of the May. Though many a road would merrily ring To the tramp of your marching feet. All roads are one from the day that's done, And the nules are swift and sweet. And the graves of your friends are the mile-stones To the land where all roads meet. But the call that you hear this day, my lad, Is the Spring's old bugle of mirth 62 When the year's green fiye in a soul's desire Is brought like a rose to the birth; And knights ride out to adventure As the flowers break out of the earth. Over the sweet-smelling mountain-passes The clouds he brightly curled; The wild-flowers cling to the crags and swing With cataract-dews impearled; And the way, the way that you choose this day Is the way to the end of the world. It roUs from the golden iong ago To the land that we ne'er shall find; And it's uphill here, but it's down hill there, For the road is wise and kind, And all rough places and cheerless faces Will soon be left behind. Come, choose your road and away, away, We'U follow the gypsy sun; For it's soon, too soon to the end of the day. And the day is well begun; And the road rolls on through the heart of the May, And there's never a May but one. There's a fir-wood here, and a dog-rose there. And a note of the mating dove; 63 And a glimpse, maybe, of the warm blue sea, And the warm white clouds above; And warm to your breast in a tenderer nest Your sweetheart's little glove. There's not much better to win, my lad, There's not much better to win I You have lived, you have loved, you have fought, you have proved The worth of folly and sin; So now come out of the city's rout, Come out of the dust and the din. Come out, — a bxmdle and stick is all You'll need to carry along, If your heart can carry a kindly word. And your lips can carry a song; You may leave the lave to the keep o' the grave, If your lips can carry a song! Come, choose your road and away, my lad, Come, choose your road and away! We'll ovi of the town by the road's bright crown, As it dips to the sapphire day! All roads may meet at the world's end, But, hey for the heart of the May! Come, choose your road and away, dear lad, Come, choose your road and away, Alfbed Notes 64 THE TUFT OF FLOWERS I WENT to turn the grass once after one Who mowed it in the dew before the sun. The dew was gone that made his blade so keen Before I came to view the levelled scene. I looked for him behind an isle of trees; I listened for his whetstone on the breeze. But he had gone his way, the grass all mown, And I must be, as he had been — alone, "As all must be," I said within my heart, "Whether they work together or apart." But as I said it, swift there passed me by On noiseless wing a 'wUdered butterfly. Seeking with memories grown dim o'er night Some resting flower of yesterday's delight. And once I marked his flight go round and round. As where some flower lay withering on the ground. And then he flew as far as eye could see, And then on tremulous wing came back to me. 65 I thought of questions that have no reply, And would have turned to toss the grass to dry; But he turned first, and led my eye to look At a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook, A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had spared Beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared. I left my place to know them by then: name, Finding them butterfly-weed when I came. The mower in the dew had loved them thus. By leaving them to flourish, not for us. Nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him. But from sheer morning gladness at the brim. The butterfly and I had ht upon, Nevertheless, a message from the dawn, That made me hear the wakening birds around, And hear his long scythe whispering to the ground. And feel a spirit kindred to my own; So that henceforth I worked no more alone; But glad with him, I worked as with his aid. And weary, sought at noon with him the shade; 66 And dreaming, as it were, held brotherly speech With one whose thought I had not hoped to reach. "Men work together," I told him from the heart, "Whether they work together or apart." BoBBBT Fbost LITTLE LAC GRENIER {Oren-Yay) liEETtE Lac Grenier, she's all alone. Right on de mountain top. But cloud sweepin' by, will fin' tam to stop No matter how quickly he want to go. So he'll kiss leetle Grenier down below. Leetle Lac Grenier, she's all alone. Up on de mountain high. But she never feel lonesome, 'cos for w'y? So soon as de winter was gone away De bird come an' sing to her ev'ry day. Leetle Lac Grenier, she's all alone. Back on de mountain dere. But de pine tree an' spruce stan' ev'rywhere Along by de shore, an' mak' her warm, For dey kip off de win' an' de winter storm I 67 Leetle Lac Grenier, she's all alone, No broder, no sister near, But de swallow will fly, an' de beeg moose deer An' caribou too, wiU go long way To drink de sweet water of Lac Grenier. Leetle Lac Grenier, I see you now, Onder de roof of spring Ma canoe's afloat, an' de robin sing, De lily's beginning her summer dress. An' trout's wakin' up from hees long long res'. Leetle Lac Grenier, I'm happy now. Out on de ole canoe, For I'm all alone, ma chfere, wit' you, An' if only a nice light rod I had I'd try dat fish near de lily padi Leetle Lac Grenier, 0! let me go, Don't spik to me no more. For your voice is strong lak de rapid's roar, An' you know youse'f I'm too far away. For visit you now — leetle Lac Grenier! WiuJAM Henbt Dbuumond 08 THE LITTLE RED LARK The little red laxk is shaking his wings, Straight from the breast of his love he springs; Listen the lilt of the song he sings, AU in the morning early, 0. The sea is rocking a cradle, hark! To a hushing-song, and the fields are dark. And would I were there with the httle red lark. All in the morning early, 0. The beard of barley is old-man's-gray, AU green and silver the new-mown hay. The dew from his wings he has shaken away, AU in the morning early, 0. The little red lark is high in the sky. No eagle soars where the lark may fly. Where are you going to, high, so high? AU in the morning early, 0. EUs wings and feathers are sunrise red. He haUs the sun and his golden head: Good-morrow, Sun, you are long abed. All in the morning early, 0. I would I were where the little red lark Up in the dawn like a rose-red spark, Sheds the day on the fields so dark, AU in the morning early, 0. Kathabine Tynan SONG FROM GITANJALI Thou hast made me known to friends whom I knew not. Thou hast given me seats in homes not my own. Thou has brought the distant near and made a brother of the stranger. I am uneasy at heart when I have to leave my accustomed shelter; I forget that there abides the old in the new, and that there also thou abidest. Through birth and death, in this world or in others, where- ever thou leadest me it is thou, the same, the one companion of my endless life who ever linkest my heart with bonds of joy to the unfamiliar. When one knows thee, then alien there is none, then no door is shut. Oh, grant me my prayer that I may never lose the bhss of the touch of the one in the play of the many. Rabindranath Tagore 70 DUE NORTH Enough: you have the dream, the flame; Free it henceforth: The South has given you a name; — Now for the North. Unsheathe your ship from where she lies. In narrow ease; Fhng out her sails to the tall skies, Flout the sharp seas. Beyond bleak headlands wistful bum Warm lights of home; In shutting darkness frays astern, Far-spun, the foam. Come wide sea-dawns, that empty are Of wet sea sand; Come eves, that lay beneath a star No lull of land. And whether on faint iris wings Of fancy borne. Or blown and breathed, the south wind brings So much to mourn I 71 The deep wood-shadows, they that drew So softly near; The violets all veined with blue, — Be strong, and steer! There is a silence to be found, And rested in; A stillness out of thought, where sound Can never win. There is a peace, beyond the stir Of wind or wave; A sleeping, where high stars confer Over the brave. The south winds come, the south winds go, Caressing, dear; Northward is silence, and white snow, — Be strong, and steer! For in that silence, waiting, lies, Untroubled, true; — Oh, eager, clear-like love in eyes — The soul of you. Benjaihn R. C. Low 72 GARDEN OF THE ROSE Her heart is like a garden fair Where many pleasant blossoms grow; But though I sometimes enter there. There is one path I do not know. The way I go to find it lies Through dewy beds of violet; Those are the portals of her eyes, Where modesty and truth are set. And just behind, a hedge is placed — A hedge of lilies, tail and white. Those are her maiden thoughts, so chaste I almost tremble in their sight. But shining through them, and above — Half-hid, but trembling to unfold — I spy the roses of her love. And then again I grow more bold. So, half in prayer, I seek and wait To find the secret path that goes Up from the lily-guarded gate To her heart's garden of the rose. Charles Buxton Going 73 THE LOVER TELLS OF THE ROSE IN HIS HEART All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old, The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lumbering cart, The heavy steps of the ploughman, splashing the wintry mould. Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart. The wrong of unshapely things is a wrong too great to be told; I hunger to build them anew and sit on a green knoll apart. With the earth and the sky and the water, remade, like a casket of gold For my dreams of your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart. W. B. Yeats A LITTLE SONG OF LIFE Glad that I live am I; That the sky is blue; Glad for the country lanes, And the fall of dew. 74 After the sun the rain After the rain the sun; This is the way of life, Till the work be done. All that we need to do, Be we low or high, Is to see that we grow Nearer the sky. LiZETTE WOODWORTH ReESB WORKWORN Across the street, an humble woman lives; To her 't is little fortune ever gives; Denied the wines of life, it puzzles me To know how she can laugh so cheerily. This mom I listened to her softly sing, And, marveUing what this effect could bring, I looked: 't was but the presence of a child Who passed her gate, and looking in, had smiled. But self-encrusted, I had failed to see The child had also looked and laughed to me. My lowly neighbor thought the smile God-sent, And singing, through the toilsome hours she went. 0! weary singer, I have learned the wrong Of taking gifts, and giving naught of song; 75 I thought my blessings scant, my mercies few, Till I contrasted them with yours, and you; To-day I counted much, yet wished it more — While but a child's bright smile was all your store. If I had thought of all the stormy days, That fill some lives that tread less favored ways. How Uttle sunshine through their shadows gleamed, My own dull life had much the brighter seemed; If I had thought of all the eyes that weep Through desolation, and stiU smiling keep, That see so little pleasure, so much woe, My own had laughed more often long ago; If I had thought how leaden was the weight Adversity lays at my kinsman's gate, Of that great cross my next-door neighbor bears. My thanks had been more frequent in my prayers; If I had watched the woman o'er the way, Workwom and old, who labors day by day. Who has no rest, no joy to call her own. My tasks, my heart, had much the lighter grown. E. Pauline Johnson (Tekahionwake) 76 DAYS AND NIGHTS Like a king from a sunrise-land In fair ship sailiag, With banners salt winds expand And pennons trailing; With wealth untold and a mind unknown, And a power to love and make friends of his own. And a power to leave those he likes not alone, Each new day comes to me, — Like king from far east sailing Over the sea. In a barge with golden trappings For queen prepared, And, against the cold, rich wrappings And furs deep-haired. To lands afar, by a force unguessed, Where the face reveals what hides in the breast, And by doubt of another no heart is distressed, Some nights have carried me, Like queen that homeward fared Over the sea. O heart, be true and strong, That worth make thee each day's good friend; Then thou the hours of dark shalt spend Out there, where is no wrong. T. SltrBQE MOOBE 77 BY AN OPEN WINDOW IN CHURCH I HEAB the music of the murmuring breeze, It mingles with the preacher's quiet word; Dim, holy memories are waked and stirred, I seem to touch once more my mother's knees. Christ's human love, His spirit mysteries Envelop me. It is as though I heard An angel choir in the singing bird That floats above the fair full-foUaged trees. The old sweet Faith is singing in my breast With peace in Nature's summer subtly blent, AU of my being breathes a deep content — Life and its unremitting, baffled quest Fade into this rich sense of perfect rest — My soul, renewed, is steeped in sacrament. CoRiNNE Roosevelt Robinson TRANSIENCE Nat, do not grieve tho' life be full of sadness. Dawn will not veil her splendour for your grief, Nor spring deny their bright, appointed beauty To lotus blossom and ashoka leaf. Nay, do not pine, tho' life be dark with trouble, Time will not pause or tarry on his way; 78 To-day that seems so long, so strange, so bitter Will soon be some forgotten yesterday. Nay, do not weep; new hopes, new dreams, new faces, The unspent joy of all the unborn years, WiU prove your heart a traitor to its sorrow. And make your eyes unfaithful to their tears. Sarojini Naidu THE VOICE OF THE UNBORN Fhom the Unseen I come to you to-night, The Hope and Expectation of your world. I am Omniscience that seeks of you A tongue to utter the eternal thought. I am Onmipotence that claims of you The tools whereby my power may profit earth. AH Love am I, that seeks to spend itself Embodied in a human sacrament, For I have heard the wailing of the world, Not faint and far away as in a dream, But very near — and lo, I understood It need not be. Wherefore I come to you. O You to whom my tenderness goes out. To whom I fain would bring an end of groans And blind, bewildered tears, a cloudless dawn Of unimagined joy and strength unguessed, 79 What welcome will you give to me, O World? Since I whose dweUing is the universe Will stoop to walls and rafters for yoiu* sake, What is the home you have prepared for me? O Men and Women, is it beautiful, A place of peace, a house of harmony? Will you be glad, who know me as I am, To see me make my habitation there? Since I will hamper my divinity With weight of mortal raiment for your sake, What vesture have you woven for my wear? O Man and Woman who have fashioned it Together, is it fine and clean and strong. Made in such reverence of holy joy. Of such unsulhed substance, that your hearts Leap with glad awe to see it clothing me. The glory of whose nakedness you know? Oh, long, long silence of the wakening years! Thus have I called since man took shape as man; Thus will I call tUl all mankind shall heed And know me, who to-day am one with God, And whom to-morrow shall behold, your child. From the Unseen I come to you to-night. . . . Amelia Josephine Bitrb 80 THE BOWL OF WATER She is eight years old. When she laughs, her eyes laugh; Light dances in her eyes; She tosses back her long hair And with a song replies; Then on light feet she darts away Tripping, mischievously gay. But now into this room of shadow Coming slowly with the sun's long ray And all the morning on her simple hair, how serious-eyed She steps preoccupied Holding a bowl of water Poised in her fingers' care, — Water quivering with cool gleajns And wavering and a-roll Within the clear glass bowl, That brimmed and luminous seems A wonder and a shining secrecy, As if it were the world's most precious thing, So open-clear that all have passed it by. Cut stalks of iris lie On the bare table, flowers and swelling buds Clasped in close curves up to the purple tips That shall to-morrow burst 81 And shoot a splendid wing, When they have drawn into their veins the spring Which those young hands, with the drops bright on them, So all intently bring; Costless felicity, Living and unbought! But over me, flowers That neither ask nor sigh, Comes the thought, How all this world is wanting and athirst! Laubence Binton THE L'lTTLE SON When my little son is born on a sunny summer mom, I'll take him sleepin' in my arms to wake beside the sea. For the windy wathers blue would be dancin' if they knew; An' the weeny waves that wet the sand come creepin' up to me. When my little son is here in the noonday warm an' clear, I'll carry him so kindly up the glen to Craiga' wood; In a green an' tremblin' shadow there I'll hush my tender laddo. An' the flittin' birds '11 quet their songs as if they understood. When my pretty son's awake, och, the care o' him I'll take! An' we'U never pass a gentle place between the dark an' day; If he's lovely in his sleep on his face a veil I'll keep. Or the wee folk an' the good folk might be wantin' him away 82 When my darlin' comes to me he will lie upon my knee — Though the world should be my pillow he must know no harder place; Sure a queen's son may be cold in a cradle all o' gold, But my arm shall be about him an' my kiss upon his face. MoiBA O'NEmii TWO SONGS FOR A CHILD I Grandfather's Love They said he sent his love to me, They would n't put it in my hand, And when I asked them where it was They said I could n't understand. I thought they must have hidden it, I hunted for it all the day, And when I told them so at night They smiled and turned their heads away. They say that love is something kind, That I can never see or touch. I wish he'd sent me something else, I like his cough-drops twice as much. 83 n The Kind Moon I THINK the moon is very kind To take such trouble just for me. He came along with me from home To keep me company. He went as fast as I could run; I wonder how he crossed the sky? I'm sure he has n't legs and feet Or any wings to fly. Yet here he is above their roof; Perhaps he thinks it is n't right For me to go so far alone, The' mother said I might. Saba Teasdalb THROUGH THE WINDOW Thkough the window Love looked in For an instant only, And behold! — a httle maid In the silence lonely. At his glance, her lily cheek Took the tint of roses. And her lips soft parted, like A bud that half uncloses. 84 Gentle tremors filled her breast, And her eyes grew tender With a something wistful that His presence seemed to lend her. Ah, 't was strange! Love there looked in For an instant only, Yet the lass, so lone before. Seemed, methought, less lonely. FiiOBENCE Earlb Coat£s A PRAYER IN SPRING Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day; And give us not to think so far away As the uncertain harvest; keep us here All simply in the springing of the year. Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white, Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night; And make us happy in the happy bees. The swarm dilating round the perfect trees. And make us happy in the darting bird That suddenly above the bees is heard. The meteor that thrusts in with needle biU, And oft a blossom in mid-air stands still. 85 For this is love and nothing else is love, The which it is reserved for God above To sanctify to what far ends he will, But which it only needs that we fulfil. ROBEBT Fbost IN THE COOL OF THE EVENING I In the cool of the evening, when the low sweet whispers waken, When the labourers turn them homeward, and the weary have their will. When the censers of the roses o'er the forest-aisles are shaken, Is it but the wind that cometh o'er the far green hill? n For they say 't is but the sunset winds that wander through the heather, Rustle all the meadow-grass and bend the dewy fern; They say 't is but the winds that bow the reeds in prayer together, And fill the shaken pools with fire along the shadowy bum. , m In the beauty of the twilight, in the Garden that He loveth, They have veiled His lovely vesture with the darkness of a name! Thro' His Garden, thro' His Garden, it is but the wind that moveth, No more; but 0, the miracle, the miracle is the samel 86 IV In the cool of the everung, when the sky is an old story Slowly djdng, but remembered, ay, and loved with passion still, Hush! . . . the fringes of His garment, in the fading golden glory. Softly rustling as He cometh o'er the far green hill. Alfred Notes ' MARCH In the dark silence of her chambers low, March works out sweeter things than mortals know. Her noiseless looms ply on with busy care, Weaving the fine cloth that the flowers wear. She sews the seams in violets' queer hood, And paints the sweet arbutus of the wood. Out of a bit of sky's deUcious blue She fashions hyacinths, and harebells, too. And from a sunbeam makes a cowslip fair, Or spins a gown for daffodils to wear. She puUs the cover from the crocus beds. And bids the sleepers lift their drowsy heads. Come, early risers! Come, anemone. My pale wind flowers! cheerily calls she. 87 The world expects you, and your lovers wait To give you welcome at spring's open gate. She marshals the close armies of the grass, And polishes their green blades as they pass. And all the blossoms of the fruit trees sweet Are piled in rosy shells about her feet. Within the great alembic she distils The dainty odor which each flower fills. Nor does she err, and give to mignonette The perfume which belongs to violet. Nature does well whatever task she tries, Because obedient. Here the secret lies. What matter, then, that wild the March-winds blow? Bear patiently her lingering frost and snow! For all the sweet beginnings of the spring Beneath her cold brown breast lie fluttering. May Rilet Smtth 83 AN EASTER CANTICLE In every trembling bud and bloom That cleaves the earth, a flowery sword, I see Thee come from out the tomb, Thou risen Lord. In every April wind that sings Down lanes that make the heart rejoice Yea, in the word the wood-thrush brings, I hear Thy voice. Lo! every tulip is a cup To hold Thy morning's brimming wine; Drink, O my soul, the wonder up — Is it not Thine? The great Lord God, invisible. Hath roused to rapture the green grass; Through sunUt mead and dew-drenched dell, I see Him pass. His old immortal glory wakes The rushing streams and emerald hills; His ancient trumpet softly shakes The daffodils. 89 Thou art not dead! Thou art the whole Of life that quickens in the sod; Green April is Thy very soul, Thou great Lord God. Chahlbs Hanson Townb DAWN IN THE DESERT When the first opal presage of the mom Quickened the east, the good Merwan arose. And by his open tent door knelt and prayed. Now in that pilgrim caravan was one Whose heart was heavy with dumb doubts, whose eyes Drew httle balm from slumber. Up and down Night-long he paced the avenues of sand 'Twixt tent and tent, and heard the jackals snarl, The camels moan for water. This one came On Merwan praying, and to him outcried — (The tortured spirit bursting its sealed fount As doth the brook on Damavend in spring) — "How knowest thou that any AUah is?" Swift from the sand did Merwan lift his face. Flung toward the east an arm of knotted bronze, And said, as upward shot a shaft of gold, "Dost need a torch to show to thee the davmf" Then prayed again. 90 When on the desert's rim In sudden awful splendor stood the sun, Through all that caravan there was no knee But bowed to Allah. Clinton Scollabd THE ROSE OF STARS When Love, ova great Immortal, Put on mortality, And down from Eden's portal Brought this sweet life to be. At the sublime archangel He laughed with veilld eyes, For he bore within his bosom The seed of Paradise. He hid it in his bosom, And there such warmth it found. It brake in bud and blossom. And the rose fell on the ground; As the green light on the prairie. As the red light on the sea. Through fragrant belts of summer Came this sweet Ufe to be. 91 And the grave archangel seeing Spread his mighty wings for flight, But the glow hung round him fleeing Like the rose of an Arctic night; And sadly moving heavenward By Venus and by Mars, He heard the joyful planets Hail Earth, the Rose of Stars. Geopqe Edwabd Woodberey ROADSIDE FLOWERS We are the roadside flowers, Straying from garden grounds; Lovers of idle hours, Breakera of ordered bounds. If only the earth will feed us, K only the wind be kind, We blossom for those who need us. The stragglers left behind. And lo, the Lord of the Garden, He makes His sun to rise, And His rain to fall like pardon On our dusty paradise. 92 On us He has laid the duty — The task of the wandering breed — To better the world with beauty, Wherever the way may lead. Who shall inquire of the season, Or question the wind where it blows? We blossom and ask no reason. The Lord of the Garden knows. Bliss Cabuan SONNET When we can all so excellently give The measm-e of love's wisdom with a blow, — Why can we not in turn receive it so, And end this murmur for the life we live? And when we do so frantically strive To win strange faith, why do we shun to know That in love's elemental over-glow God's wholeness gleams with Ught superlative? Oh, brother men, if you have eyes at all. Look at a branch, a bird, a child, a rose, — Or anjrthing God ever made that grows, — Nor let the smallest vision of it sUp, Till you can read, as on Belshazzar's wall, The glory of eternal partnership! Edwin Ablington Robinson ,03 HEARTH-SONG When November's night comes down With a dark and sudden frown, Like belated traveler chill Hurrying o'er the tawny hill, — Higher, higher Heap the pine-cones in a pyre! Where 's a better friend than fire? Song 's but solace for a day; Wine 's a traitor not to trust; Love 's a kiss and then away; Time 's a peddler deals in dust. Higher, higher Pile the driftwood in a pyre I Where 's a firmer friend than fire? Knowledge was but born to-night; Wisdom 's to be born to-morrow; One more log — and banish sorrow, One more branch — the world is bright. Higher, higher Crown with balsam-boughs the pyre! Where 's an older friend than fire? Robert Underwood Johnson 94 ROSA ROSARUM Give me, O friend, the secret of thy heart Safe in my breast to hide, So that the leagues which keep our lives apart May not our souls divide. Give me the secret of thy life to lay Asleep within mine own, Nor dream that it shall mock thee any day By any sign or tone. Nay, as in walking through some convent-close. Passing beside a well. Oft have we thrown a red and scented rose To watch it as it fell; Knowing that never more the rose shall rise To shame us, being dead; Watching it spin and dwindle till it lies At rest, a speck of red — Thus, I beseech thee, down the silent deep And darkness of my heart, Cast thou a rose; give me a rose to keep, My friend, before we part. 95 For, ae thou passest down thy garden-ways, Full many a blossom there Groweth for thee: lilies and laden bays, And rose and lavender. But down the darkling well one only rose In all the year is shed; And o'er that chill and secret wave it throws A sudden dawn of red. A. Mabt F. KoBiNson AN OLD SONG Low blowing winds from out a midnight sky. The falling embers and a kettle's croon — These three, but oh, what sweeter lullaby Ever awoke beneath the winter's moon. We know of none the sweeter, you and I, And oft we've heard together that old tune — Low blowing winds from out a midnight sky. The falling embers and a kettle's croon. Thomas S. Jones, Jr. oa THREE FLOWERS I MADE a little song about the rose And sang it for the rose to hear Nor ever marked until the music's close A hly that was listening near. The red red rose flushed redder with dehght. And like a queen her head she raised; The white lily blanched a paler white For anger that she was not praised. Turning, I left the rose unto her pride, The lily to her enviousness, And soon upon the grassy ground espied A daisy aU companionless. Doubtless no flattered flower is this, I deemed, And not so graciously it grew As rose or hly; but methought it seemed More thankful for the sun and dew. Dear love, my sweet small flower that grew'st among The grass, from aU the flowers apart, — Forgive me that I gave the rose my song Ere Thou, the daisy, hadst my heart ! William Watson 97 EACH IN HIS OWN TONGUE A FiBE-MisT and a planet, — A crystal and a cell, — A jellyfish and a saurian, And caves where the cave-men dwell: Then a sense of law and beauty. And a face turned from the clod, — Some call it Evolution, And others call it God. A haze on the far horizon, The infinite, tender sky, The ripe, rich tint of the cornfields, And the wild geese saihng high, — And all over upland and lowland The charm of the goldenrod, — Some of us call it Autumn, And others call it God. Like tides on a crescent sea-beach, When the moon is new and thin, Into our hearts high yearnings Come welling and surging in, — Come from the mystic ocean. Whose rim no foot has trod, — Some of us call it Longing, And others call it God. 98 A picket frozen on duty, — A mother starved for her brood, — Socrates drmking the hemlock. And Jesus on the rood; And millions who, humble and nameless, The straight, hard pathway plod, — Some call it Consecration, And others call it God. William Hebbebt Cabbitth EVOLUTION Out of the dark a shadow, Then, a spark; Out of the cloud a silence, Then, a lark; Out of the heart a rapture, Then, a pain; Out of the dead cold ashes, Life again. John B. Tabb A PRAYER It is my joy in life to find At every turning of the road, The strong arm of a comrade kind To help me onward with my load. And since I have no gold to give, And love alone must make amends, My only prayer is, while I live, — God make me worthy of my friends ! Frank Dempster Sherman OLD FRIENDSHIP STREET Love led me to an unknown land and fain was I to go; From peak to peak a weary way he lures me to and fro; On narrow ledge and dizzy height he dares my wayworn feet — I would that I were back again to walk Old Friendship Street. It's there one knew the level road, the even grass-grown way; My brain grew never wildered there, my feet might never stray; But here I quarrel for the path with every soul I meet — I would that I were back again to walk Old Friendship Street. It's here I find no gracious hand to close within my own. But there one never raised a song to find he sang alone; And always at a neighbor's hearth were kindly glass and seat — I would that I were back again to walk Old Friendship Street. 100 I 'm sick of awful depths and heights, I 'm sick of storm and strife; I'll let Love lead for bolder folk and take my ease in life. I know whose voice will hail me first, whose welcoming be sweet — It's I am going back again to walk Old Friendship Street. Theodosia Gakbison STANZAS FROM THE NIGHTINGALE UNHEARD Sing, for the others! Sing; to some pale cheek Against the window, like a starving flower. Loose, with your singing, one poor pilgrim hour Of journey, with some Heart's Desire to seek. Loose, with your singing, captives such as these In misery and iron, hearts too meek, For voyage — voyage over dreamful seas To lost Hesperides. Sing not for free-men. Ah, but sing for whom The walls shut in; and even as eyes that fade, The windows take no heed of light nor shade — The leaves are lost in mutterings of the loom. Sing near! So in that golden overflowing They may forget their wasted human bloom; Pay the devouring days their all, unknowing, — Reck not of life's bright going! Josephine Preston Peabody 101 LOVE OF LIFE Love you not the tall trees spreading wide their branches, Cooling with their green shade the sunny days of June? Love you not the little bird lost among the leaflets, Dreamily repeating a quaint, brief tune? Is there not a joy in the waste windy places; Is there not a song by the long dusty way? Is there not a glory in the sudden hour of struggle? . Is there not a peace in the long quiet day? Love you not the meadows with the deep lush grasses; Love you not the cloud-flocks noiseless in their flight? Love you not the cool wind that stirs to meet the sunrise; Love you not the stillness of the warm summer night? Have you never wept with a grief that slowly passes; Have you never laughed when a joy goes nmning by? Know you not the peace of rest that follows labor? — You have not learnt to live then; how can you dare to die? Tbettos van Dtkb RENEWAL Apbil, when I heard Your lyrical low word, And when upon the hawthorn hedge your first white blossom stirred, 102 Something strangely came — Something I cannot name — And touched my heart, and cleansed my soul with a reviving flame. When the yellow gleam Of your hosts that stream — Jonquil, buttercup, and crocus — made the world a golden dream, Something, April, said To my heart that bled — Bled with old remembrance — "Lo, the grief-strewn days are fled!" Sursum cor da! Now, When blooms the apple-bough, April, of your pity, let your light rain kiss my brow; Heal me, if you will; Bathe my heart until I am one with your first primrose or the shining daffodil! Chablbs Hanson Townb 103 TEWKSBURY ROAD It is good to be out on the road, and going one knows not where, Going through meadow and village, one knows not whither or why; Through the grey light drift of the dust, in the keen cool rush of the air. Under the flying white clouds, and the broad blue lift of the sky. And to halt at the chattering brook, in the tall green fern at the brink Where the harebell grows, and the gorse, and the foxgloves purple and white; Where the shy-eyed delicate deer troop down to the brook to drink When the stars are mellow and large at the coming on of the night. 0, to feel the beat of the rain, and the homely smell of the earth, Is a tune for the blood to jig to, a joy past power of words; And the blessed green comely meadows are aU a-ripple with mirth At the noise of the lambs at play and the dear wild cry of the birds. John Masefield 104 THE MAKING OF BIRDS God made Him birds in a pleasant humour; Tired of planets and suns was He. He said: "I will add a glory to summer, Gifts for my creatures banished from Me!" He had a thought and it set Him smiling, Of the shape of a bird and its glancing head, Its dainty air and its grace beguiling: "I will make feathers," the Lord God said. He made the robin; He made the swallow; His deft hands moulding the shape to His mood. The thrush and lark and the finch to follow. And laughed to see that His work was good. He who has given men gift of laughter. Made in His image; He fashioned fit The blink of the owl and the stork thereafter, The little wren and the long-tailed tit. He spent in the making His wit and fancies; The wing-feathers He fashioned them strong; Deft and dear as daisies and pansies. He crowned His work with the gift of song. 105 "Dearlings," He said, "make songs for My praises!" He tossed them loose to the sun and wind, Airily sweet as pansies and daisies; He taught them to build a nest to their mind. The dear Lord God of His glories weary — Christ our Lord had the heart of a boy — Made Him birds in a moment merry. Bade them soar and sing for His joy. KATHAHniE Ttnan BIRDS SuKB maybe ye've heard the storm-thrush Whistlin' bould in March, Before there's a primrose peepin' out. Or a wee red cone on the larch; Whistlin' the sun to come out o' the cloud, An' the wind to come over the sea. But for all he can whistle so clear an' loud, He's never the bird for me. Sure maybe ye've seen the song-thrush After an April rain Slip from in-undher the drippin' leaves, Wishful to sing again; loa An' low wi' love when he's near the nest, An' loud from the top o' the tree, But for all he can flutter the heart in your breast. He's never the bird for me. Sure maybe ye've heard the cushadoo CaUin' his mate in May, When one sweet thought is the whole of his life, An' he tells it the one sweet way. But my heart is sore at the cushadoo Filled wid his own soft glee. Over an' over his "me an' you!" He's never the bird for me.' Sure maybe ye've heard the red-breast Singin' his lone on a thorn, Mindin' himself o' the dear days lost. Brave wid his heart forlorn. The time is in dark November, An' no spring hopes has he; "Remember," he sings, "remember!" Ay, thon 's the wee bird for me. MoiBA O'Neill 107 THE LITTLE WAVE^ OF BREFFNY The grand road from the mountain goes shining to the sea, And there is traffic on it, and many a horse and cart; But the httle roads of Cloonagh are dearer far to me. And the little roads of Cloonagh go rambling through my heart. A great storm from the ocean goes shouting o'er the hill, And there is glory in it, and terror on the wind; But the haunted air of twilight is very strange and still, And the little winds of twihght are dearer to my mind. The great waves of the Atlantic sweep storming on their way. Shining green and silver with the hidden herring shoal; But the Little Waves of Breffny have drenched my heart in spray, And the Little Waves of Breffny go stumbling through my soul. Eva Gobe-Booth LIFE, A QUESTION? Life? and worth living? Yes, with each part of us — Hurt of us, help of us, hope of us, heart of us, Life is worth living. Ah! with the whole of us, Will of us, brain of us, senses and soul of us. 108 Is life worth living? Aye, with the best of us, Heights of us, depths of us, — Life is the test of us! CoMNNB Roosevelt Robinson PRAYER God, though this life is but a wraith, Although we know not what we use, Although we grope with little faith. Give me the heart to fight — and lose. Ever insurgent let me be. Make me more daring than devout; From sleek contentment keep me free, And fill me with a buoyant doubt. Open my eyes to visions girt With beauty, and with wonder lit — But let me always see the dirt, And all that spawn and die in it. Open my ears to music; let Me thrill with Spring's first flutes and drums - But never let me dare forget The bitter ballads of the slums. 109 From compromise and things half-done, Keep me, with stern and stubborn pride; And when, at last, the fight is won God, keep me still unsatisfied. Louis Untbbmetbb THE GREAT VOICE I WHO have heard solemnities of sound — The throbbing pulse of cities, the loud roar Of ocean on sheer ledges of gaunt rock. The chanting of innumerable winds Around white peaks, the plunge of cataracts, The whelm of avalanches, and, by night. The thunder's panic breath — have come to know What is earth's mightiest voice — the desert's voice — Silence, that speaks with deafening tones of God. Clinton Scollabd SWUNG TO THE VOID Once, suddenly, I found myself alone. Out in the void of a great city, filled With tremblings and the cry of many fears. 110 Making escape out of the human deep, I climbed heart-troubled to the leafy hills; And stretching on a bank above a stream, I gazed up to the dome of the high boughs. And wondered over life and life's alarms. And as I lay there asking for a sign, I saw a spider flash his filmy ropes Across the dome; saw him, with rapturous fall, Drop on a silver cable to the void, And hang serenely in the rosy beams Of sunset — hang all still and unafraid. And lo, a courage came upon my soul. With long, long thoughts of this adventurer. This httle dweller in the floorless air. Held in the peace that folds the earth and stars. Edwin Mabeham THE HUMAN TOUCH High thoughts and noble in all lands Help me; my soul is fed by such. But ah, the touch of lips and hands, — The human touch! Warm, vital, close, life's symbols dear, — These need I most, and now, and here. RiCHABD Burton 111 WORK Let me but do my work from day to day, In field or forest, at the desk or loom. In roaring market-place or tranquil room; Let me but find it in my heart to say, When vagrant wishes beckon me astray, "This is my work; my blessing, not my doom; Of all who live, I am the one by whom This work can best be done in the right way." Then shall I see it not too great, nor small. To suit my spirit and to prove my powers; Then shall I cheerful greet the labouring hours, And cheerful turn, when the long shadows fall At eventide, to play and love and rest. Because I know for me my work is best. Henbt van Dtkb THE MARCH OF MEN If you could cast away the pain, The sorrows and the tears. And let the joys alone remain From all departed years; If you could quite forget the sighs And recollect the song — 112 What think yoil: would you be aa wise, As helpful, or as strong? If you could lay the burden down That bows your head at whiles. Shun everything that wears a frown. And live a life of smiles — Be happy as a child again, As free from thoughts of care — Would you appear to other men More noble or more fair? Ah, no! a man should do his part And carry all his load. Rejoiced to share with every heart The roughness of the road. Not given to thinking overmuch Of pains and griefs behind, But glad to be in fullest touch With all his hifii^n-kind. ChABLBS BtJXTON GOIKG THE BALLAD OF FATHER GILLIGAN The old priest Peter Gilligan Was weary night and day; For half his flock were in their beds. Or under green sods lay. 113 Once, while he nodded on a chair, At the moth-hoiir of eve, Another poor man sent for him. And he began to grieve. "I have no rest, nor joy, nor peace, For people die and die"; And after cried he, "God forgive! My body spake, not II" He Imelt, and leaning on the chair He prayed and fell asleep; And the moth-hom' went from the fields, And stars began to peep. They slowly into millions grew, And leaves shook in the wind; And God covered the world with shade. And whispered to mankind. Upon the time of sparrow chirp When the moths came once more, The old priest Peter GUligan Stood upright on the floor. "Mavrone, mavrone! the man has died, While I slept on the chair "; He roused his horse out of its sleep, And rode with little care. 114 ' He rode now as he never rode, By rocky lane and fen; The sick man's wife opened the door: "Father! you come againl" "And is the poor man dead?" he cried. "He died an hour ago." The old priest Peter Gilligan In grief swayed to and fro. f When you were gone, he turned and died As merry as a bird." The old priest Peter Gilligan He knelt him at that word. "He who hath made the night of stars For souls, who tire and bleed, Sent one of His great angels down To help me in my need. "He who is wrapped in purple robes. With planets in His care, Had pity on the least of things Asleep upon a chair." W. B. Yeats 115 HEROISM Whether we climb, whether we plod, Space for one task the scant years lend — To choose some path that leads to God, And keep it to the end. LiZETTB WOODWOETH ReEBB THE COMFORT OF THE STARS When I am overmatched by petty cares And things of earth loom large, and look to be Of moment, how it soothes and comforts me To step into the night and feel the airs Of heaven fan my cheek; and, best of all. Gaze up into those aU-uncharted seas Where swim the stately planets: such as these Make mortal fret seem light and temporal. I muse on what of Life may stir among Those spaces knowing naught of metes nor bars; Undreamed-of dramas played in outmost stars, And lyrics by archangels grandly sung. I grow familiar with the solar runes And comprehend of worlds the mystic birth: Ringed Saturn, Mars, whose fashion apes the earth, And Jupiter, the giant, with his moons. 116 Then, dizzy with the unspeakable sights above, Rebuked by Vast on Vast, my puny heart Is greatened for its transitory part, My trouble merged in wonder and in love. KiCHABD BUBTON DAY Theee is your day. Up! Away! The still, untroubled forest stirs. The doves' nests in the deep black firs Move and pulse and beat; Quivers of leaves, like heat, Run down the birches' boughs; One steady wind-blade ploughs A fvuTow in the lake; The small wild roses take Sudden warm blushes; all the sky Grows into blue. — Sua, come by! The forest breathes and waits: Birds call their mates: White flowers shake on stems: Lake ripples gleam like gems: The morning star is near to die: — Sun! Come by! 117 You, sleepy-eyed, leap up; let slip Wann dreams, and make your lashes drip With quick cold water. Eat, and pray Before the sun, and laugh, and say "God's joy be with my world to-day! 7 There is your day. Up! Away I Fannie Steabnb Datis HILLS I NEVER loved your plains! — Your gentle valleys, Your drowsy coimtry lanes And pleached alleys. I want my hills! — the trail That scorns the hollow. — Up, up the ragged shale Where few will follow. Up, over wooded crest And mossy boulder With strong thigh, heaving chest. And swinging shoulder, 118 So let me hold my way, By nothing halted, Until, at close of day, I stand, exalted. High on my hills of dream — Dear hills that know me! And then, how fair will seem The lands below me. How pure, at vesper-time, The far bells chiming — God, give me hills to climb. And strength for climbing! AbtHUB GmXEBMAN IN SERVICE LnTLB Nellie Cassidy has got a place in town. She wears a fine white apron. She wears a new black gown, An' the quarest little cap at all with straymers hanging down. I met her one fine evening stravagin' down the street, A feathered hat upon her head. And boots upon her feet. "Och, Mick," says she, "may God be praised that you and I should meet. 119 "It's lonesome in the city with such a crowd," says she; "I'm lost without the bog-land, I'm lost without the sea, An' the harbor an' the fishing-boats that sail out fine and free. "I'd give a golden guinea to stand upon the shore, To see the big waves lepping. To hear them splash and roar, To smell the tar and the drying nets, I'd not be asking more. "To see the small white houses, their faces to the sea, The childher in the doorway, Or round my mother's knee; For I'm strange and lonesome missing them, God keep them all," says she. Little Nellie Cassidy earns fourteen pounds and more, Waiting on the quality. And answering the door — But her heart is some place far away upon the Wexford shore, W. M. Letts THE WIFE The little Dreams of Maidenhood — I put them all away As tenderly as mother would The toys of yesterday. 120 When little children grow to men Too over-wise for play. The little dreams I put aside — I loved them every one, And yet since moon-blown buds must hide Before the noon-day sim, I close them wistfully away And give the key to none. O little Dreams of Maidenhood — Lie quietly, nor care If some day in an idle mood I, searching unaware Through some closed corner of my heart, Should laugh to find you there. Thbodosia Garrison SEVEN YEARS Seven years have flown like seven days, Like seven days of shining weather. Since we, forsaking single ways. Trod earth and faced the skies together. The old is new, the new is old. And who shall reckon, one or seven. The years that Time has never told? He numbers not the days of Heaven. LAtTBENCB BiNTON 121 MY ROSARY The nun within the convent walls Kneels in her narrow cell to pray; Her blessed beads she telleth o'er, — A prayer for each at close of day. I, too, must pray; but, ah I for me There is a different rosary. I keep it close about my heart, — Not precious stone or carvid bead Linked each to each, — not such a one Demands of me my simple creed; But, for each bead, in place I see A dear loved face — my rosary. Dear faces carved in loving thought: When each still night I kneel to pray. Or when my heart, all silently, Mimnurs its prayers throughout the day, I tell my beads, and ask that He Bless each one in my rosary. Kate Wmrma Patch 122 ONE YEAR OLD Is it we that are wise, is it we, Who have bought with a price of grief A wisdom seldom free From scorn or disbelief, Who find this world fulfil An end that is not our will, Who toil with light in our eyes Showing us scarce begun The things we meant to have done; Is it we, is it we, that are wise? Or 0, is it you, is it you, That have yet no language of ours. But whose eyes are a laughter blue As of light slipping under the showers, Whose carol, sweeter than words. Trills clear as an April bird's. Or a dancing brook on the hill, — Blithe springs of a confidence That bubbles, we know not whence, And has no knowledge of ill? Lo, our desires have gone Like ships to a future far 123 And vanished in mist alone By no befriending star. But all to you is a wonder Fresh as the sky, whereunder Life moves to pledge delight; You need no hope to bear The day through the day's care; Your joys are all in sight. You want not a word to tell What lies beyond our guess And springs like a sparkling well In lovely speechlessness. And we that have shaped with art Language of mind and of mart, We have never yet found speech For the heart's blood deepest stirred: Something is flown with a word Or is buried beneath our reach. Our speech is spun from the pain Of thought and heavy with years, And dyed with an ancient stain From passion and blood and tears. But 0, 1 vow, when I hear Your wordless carol clear, 124 I would cast this speech that endures As a sorry old patchwork coat, Could I but re-fill my throat With the liquid joy ia yours. Lauhbnce Binton LIE-AWAKE SONGS I Often when awake I lie Listening to the clocks go round Hours and homs, I wonder why My brother sleeps so sound. n The city is so kind to me; It stays awake for company — It never sleeps at all. Its lamps are always burning bright From when my mother says good-night Until the milkmen call. The street is always full of wheels, Horse-carriages and aut'mobiles — The whole night long they pass, Carrying home to marble haUs Princesses that have been to balls In little shoes of glass. 125 Then there's tae dog across the way — He must be dreaming of the day Or barking at a kitty — And people talking as they go. . . . I often wonder do they know That I'm awake and like them so, Or is it just — the City? ni God has a house three streets away, And every Sunday, rain or shine, My nxu'se goes there her prayers to say. She's told me of the candles fine That burning all night long they keep Because God never goes to sleep. Then there's a steeple full of bells; All through the dark the time it tells, I like to hear it in the night And think about those candles bright. I wonder if God stays awake For kindness, like the furnace-man Who comes before it's day, to make Our house as pleasant as he can. I like to watch the sky grow blue And think perhaps the whole world through No one's awake but just us three, — God and the fumace-man and me. Amelia Josephine Bubb 126 SONG Aphil, April, Laugh thy girlish laughter; Then, the moment after. Weep thy girlish tears! April, that mine ears Like a lover greetest, K I tell thee, sweetest, All my hopes and fears, April, April, Laugh thy golden laughtef. But, the moment after. Weep thy golden tears I William Watson RAIN REVERY In the lone of night by the pattering tree I sat alone with Poetry — With Poetry, my old shy friend. And his tenuous shadow seemed to blend -~ Beyond the lampshiae on the sUl — With the mammoth shadow of the hill, And his breath fell soft on the pool-dark pane With the murmurous, murmuring mufiBed hoof Of the rain, the rain. The rain on the roof. 127 In the vast of night and its vacancy I prayed aloud to Poetry, And his luminous eyes grew large and dim As my heart-pulse quickened to question him; For out of that rumbling rhymeless rune He only might know, by a sense atune. To unravel the anguish, and render vain The remorseless will that wove the woof Of the rain, the rain, The rain on the roof. So I cried: "What mute conspiracy Have you made with the night, Poetry? Lover and friend of my warm doorway. Do you crouch there too on the storm-soaked clay? Did you creep indoors when that gust of damp Raised the dead moon-moths round my lamp And the wan flame guttered? — Hark, againl Do you ride there — so close, so aloof — With the rain, the rain, The rain on the roof? f'Ah, what of the rapture and melody We might have wrought, dear Poetry! Imagined tower and dream-built shrine. Must they crumble in dark like this pale lampshine ? ' Our dawn-flecked meadows l3Tic-shrill, Shall they lie as dumb as the gloom-drenched hill ? 128 Our song-voiced lovers! — Shall none remain?" — Under the galloping, gusty hoof Answered the rain, rain, Rain on the roof. Percy MacEatb THERE IS PANSIES Take these memories sweet-scented, Gathered while the morning dew Drenched the silver of the cobwebs. Heartsease, picked at dawn for you. Yellow for the days of sunshine, White for days of peace and rest, Purple ones for feasts and high days. Wine-red for the days love blessed. For myself, I keep the black ones, Memories of grief and pain, Keep them hidden lest their shadow Fall across your heart again. Mildred Howells 129 ON ARRANGING A BOWL OF VIOLETS I DIP my hands in April among your faces tender, woven of blue air and ecstasies of light 1 Breathed words of the Earth-Mother, although it is Novembe;-, You wing my soul with memories adorable and white. 1 hear you call each other: "Ah, Sweet, do you remember The garden that we haimted — its spaces of delight? The sound of nmning water — the day's long lapse of splendor, The winds that begged our fragrance and loved us in the night?" GbACE HAZiIRD CONELING A MAY MADRIGAL SwEETHEAET, the buds are on the tree, The birds are back once more, And with their songs they call to me To open wide my door: So wide shall stand the door to-day Because my heart is true To bud and bird, to mirth and May, And, most of all, to You. Sweetheart, the leaves begin to show. The grass is green again. And on the breeze sweet odors blow From wild flowers in the glen: 130 The world is glad with voice and wing, And all the skies are blue; The scent, the song, the soul of Spring, I find them all in You! Sweetheart, the snows have gone, and now It is the mating time. Hark to the lover on the bough, What melody sublime! What ecstasy of passion, pride. And love and rapture, tool So door and heart stand open wide To welcome May and You! Fbans Dempster Sherman NASTURTIUMS Adown the stone-waU in the summer days, The dear nastiu:tiums trail their tangled vines. Their petals orange are, as are the wines Of the warm south; or crimson, as the blaze That fires the dawn; or golden, like the haze When sunset colors bum; or, veined with lines Of twilight purple, their quick scarlet shines; And all are flecked and dashed with browns and grays. And when the autumn comes, and the frost nips The pansy, sweet-pea, rose, and other flowers, 131 Touching the aster to a quivered fear — These blossom-children whisper with brave lips: "We scorn the chill of the September hours I Even October finds us happy here!" Alanbon Tuckeb SchuiUlNM "FROST TO-NIGHT" Apple-Gbeen west and an orange bar, And the crystal eye of a lone, one star . . . And " Child, take the shears and cut what you wilL Frost to-night — so clear and dead-still." Then, I sally forth, half sad, half proud, And I come to the velvet, imperial crowd. The wine-red, the gold, the crimson, the pied, — The dahlias that reign by the garden-side. The dahlias I might not touch till to-night! A gleam of the shears in the fading light. And I gathered them all, — the splendid throng, And in one great sheaf I bore them along. In my garden of Life with its all-late flowers I heed a Voice in the shrinking hours: "Frost to-ni^t — so clear and dead-still . . ." Half sad, half proud, my arms I fill. Edith M. Thomas 132 YOU, FOUR WALLS, WALL NOT IN MY HEARTI You, Four Walls, Wall not in my heart! When the lovely night-time falls All so welcomely, Blinding, sweet hearth-fire, Light of heart's desire, BUnd not, bliad not me! Unto them that weep apart, — While you glow, within, Wreckt, despairing kin, — Dark with misery: — Do not blind my heart! You, close Heart! Never hide from mine Worlds that I divine Through thy human dearness. O belovM Nearness, Hallow all I understand With thy hand-in-hand; — All the hghts I seek, With thy cheek-to-cheek; All the loveliness I loved apart. You, heart's Home! — Wall not in my heart. Josephine Preston Peabody 133 AWAKE, MY HEART, TO BE LOVED, AWAKE, AWAKE I Awake, my heart, to be loved, awake, awake! The darkness silvers away, the morn doth break, It leaps in the sky: imrisen lustres slake The o'ertaken moon. Awake, heart, awake I She too that loveth awaketh and hopes for thee; Her eyes already have sped the shades that flee, Already they watch the path thy feet shall take: Awake, heart, to be loved, awake, awake I And if thou tarry from her, — if this could be, — She Cometh herself, heart, to be loved, to thee; For thee would unashamed herself forsake: Awake to be loved, my heart, awake, awake! Awake, the land is scattered with hght, and see, Uncanopied sleep is flying from field and tree; And blossoming boughs of April in laughter shake; Awake, heart, to be loved, awake, awake! Lo all things wake and tarry and look for thee: She looketh and saith, " sun, now bring him to me. Come more adored, adored, for his coming's sake, And awake my heart to be loved: awake, awake! " Robert Bkidgeb 134 FLOS ^VORUM YoTJ must mean more than just this hour. You perfect thing so subtly fair, Simple and complex as a flower, Wrought with such planetary care; How patient the eternal power That wove the marvel of your hair. How long the sunUght and the sea Wove and re-wove this rippling gold To rhythms of eternity; And many a flashing thing grew old. Waiting this miracle to be; And painted marvels manifold, Still with his work unsatisfied, Eager each new effect to try. The solemn artist cast aside. Rainbow and shell and butterfly. As some stern blacksmith scatters wide The sparks that from his anvil fly. How many shells, whorl within whorl. Litter the marges of the sphere With wrack of unregarded pearl, To shape that little thing your ear: Creation, just to make one girl. Hath travailed with exceeding fear. 135 The moonlight of forgotten seas Dwells in your eyes, and on your tongue The honey of a million bees, And aU the sorrows of all song: You are the ending of aU these. The world grew old to make you young. All time hath travelled to this rose; To the strange making of this face Came agonies of fires and snows; And Death and April, nights and days Unnumbered, unimagined throes. Find in this flower their meeting place. Strange artist, to my aching thought Give answer: aU the patient power That to this perfect ending wrought, Shall it mean nothing but an hour? Say not that it is all for nought Time brings Eternity a flower. RlCHABD Le GaIXIENNB THE VIOLIN SoMETiMBS the violin seems to me A type of what the soul must be When it has put aside the bark And come from out the friendly dark 136 Where wayward forest breezes run — To lie and mellow in the sun. The master with unerring hand Prepares it for the spirit-land. But ever, as the seasons roll Their roundelay through branch and bole, — What though its voice has come to be The voice of immortality? — The old, old spirit stirs within The nature of the violin. And so, as if some dear, dead friend A word to those behind might send. It speaks to common human ears Of morning blessings, evening tears; And runs, with more than mortal art. The gamut of the human heart. RoBEBT Haven Schauffler 137 THE VESTURE OF THE SOUL I PITIED one whose tattered dress Was patched, and stained with dust and rain; He smiled on me; I could not guess The viewless spirit's wide domain. He said, "The royal robe I wear Trails all along the fields of light: Its silent blue and silver bear For gems the starry dust of night. "The breath of Joy unceasingly Waves to and fro its folds starlit, And far beyond earth's misery I live and breathe the joy of it." A. E. SOMETIMES AcBoss the fields of yesterday He sometimes comes to me, A little lad just back from play — The lad I used to be. And yet he smiles so wistfully Once he has crept within, I wonder if he hopes to see The man I might have been. Thomas S. Jonbs, Jb. 138 A SONG There is ever a song somewhere, my dear; There is ever a something sings alway: There's the song of the lark when the skies are clear, And the song of the thrush when the skies are gray. The sunshine showers across the grain, And the bluebird trills in the orchard tree; And in and out, when the eaves drip rain. The swallows are twittering ceaselessly. There is ever a song somewhere, my dear, Be the skies above or dark or fair, There is ever a song that our hearts may hear — There is ever a song somewhere, my dear — There is ever a song somewhere! There is ever a song somewhere, my dear. In the midnight black, or the mid-day blue; The robin pipes when the sun is here. And the cricket chirrups the whole night through. The buds may blow, and the fruit may grow. And the autumn leaves drop crisp and sear; But whether the sun, or the rain, or the snow, There is ever a song somewhere, my dear. There is ever a song somewhere, my dear, Be the skies above or dark or fair, 139 There is ever a song that our hearts may hear — There is ever a song somewhere, my dear — There is ever a song somewhere! James Whitcomb Rilet ON A GLOOMY EASTER I HEAB the robins singing in the rain. The longed-for Spring is hushed so drearily That hungry lips cry often wearily, "Oh, if the blessed sun would shine again!',' I hear the robins singing in the rain. The misty world lies waiting for the dawn; The wind sobs at my window and is gone. And in the silence come old throbs of pain. But still the robins sing on in the rain, Not waiting for the morning sun to break, Nor listening for the violets to wake. Nor fearing lest the snow may fall again. My heart sings with the robins in the rain, For I remember it is Easter morn. And life and love and peace are all new born, And joy has triumphed over loss and pain. 140 Sing on, brave robins, sing on in the rain! You know behind the clouds the sun must shine, You know that death means only life divine And aU our losses turn to heavenly gain. I lie and listen to you in the rain. Better than Easter bells that do not cease. Your message from the heart of God's great peace, And to his arms I turn and sleep again. Alice Freeman Palmbe KINSHIP I AM aware, As I go commonly sweeping the stair, Doiag my part of the every-day care — Human and simple my lot and my share — I am aware of a marvelous thing: Voices that murmur and ethers that ring In the far stellar spaces where cherubim sing. I am aware of the passion that pours Down the channels of fire through Infinity's doors; Forces terrific, with melody shod, Music that mates with the pulses of God. I am aware of the glory that runs From the core of myself to the core of the suns. 141 Bound to the stars by invisible chains, , Blaze of eternity now in my veins, Seeing the rush of ethereal rains Here in the midst of the every-day air — I am aware. I am aware. As I sit quietly here in my chair, Sewing or reading or braiding my hair — Himian and simple my lot and my share — I am aware of the systems that swing Through the aisles of creation on heavenly wing, I am aware of a marvelous thing. Trail of the comets in furious flight. Thunders of beauty that shatter the night. Terrible triumph of pageants that march To the trumpets of time through Eternity's arch. I am aware of the splendor that ties All the things of the earth with the things of the skies, Here in my body the heavenly heat, Here in my flesh the melodious beat Of the planets that circle Divinity's feet. As I sit silently here in my chair, I am aware. Angela Morgan 142 THE HOUSE AND THE ROAD The little Road says, Go, The little House says. Stay: And O, it's bonny here at home, But I must go away. The little Road, like me, Would seek and turn and know; And forth I must, to learn the things The little Road would show! And go I must, my dears. And journey while I may. Though heart be sore for the little House That had no word but Stay. Maybe, no other way Your child could ever know Why a little House would have you stay, When a little Road says, Go. Josephine Pebston Peabody 14S THE MAGIC PURSE What is the gold of mortal-kind To that men find Deep in the poet's mind! — That magic pm'se Of Dreams from which God builds His miiverse . That makes life rich With many a vision; Taking the soul from out its prison Of facts with the precision A wildflower dons When Spring comes knocking at the door Of Earth across the windy lawns; Calling to Joy to rise and dance before Her happy feet: Or with the beat And bright exactness of a star, Hanging its punctual point afar, When Night comes tripping over Heaven's floor. Leaving a gate ajar. That leads the Heart from all its aching Far above where day is breaking; Out of the doubts, the agonies. The strife and sin, to join with these — 144 Hope and Beauty and Joy that build Their golden walls Of sunset where, with spirits filled, A Presence calls. And points a land Where Love walks, silent; hand in hand With the Spirit of God, and leads Man right Out of the darkness into the light. Madison Caweis HAMMER AND ANVIL "Hammer away, ye hostile bands; Your hammers break, God's anvil stands." Look forth and tell me what they do On Life's broad field. Oh, still they fight. The False forever with the True, The Wrong forever with the Right. And still God's faithful ones, as men Who hold a fortress strong and high. Cry out in confidence again, And find a comfort in the cry: "Hammer away, ye hostile hands. Your hanmiers break, God's anvil stands." Older than pjrramid or sphinx, Old as the stars themselves, the word 145 Whereby, when other courage sinks, The courage born of heaven is stirred. For, when God made the world and knew That good and evil could not blend. He planned, however men might do. What should be, would be in the end. And, though as thick as ocean sands They rain their blows, the anvil stands. Oh, many a time has this vain world Essayed to thwart the mighty plan; Its fleets and armies have been hurled Against the common rights of man. But wrecked Armadas, Waterloos, Empires abandoned to decay. Proclaim the truth they did not choose — What broken hammers strew the way! Though all the world together bands To smite it, still the anvil stands. Thou knowest that thy cause is just? Then rest in that; thy cause is sure. Thy word is true? Oh, then it must, In spite of slanderous tongues endure. As toward the crag the billow rides. Then falls back, shattered, to its place: 146 As fans the breeze the mountain sides, • Nor fans the mountain from its base, — So, in all times and in aU lands. Men's hammers break, God's anvil stands. Samuel Valentine Colb TO THE IDEAL 'Tisa long lane that has no turning. True. How long the lane that somewhere turns to you! Between the hedge of hopes, the hedge of fears, My feet have walked for more than twenty years, But still the road runs straight, and still I see Its narrowing line grow small in front of me. Sometimes I meet a pilgrim coming back With craven heart along the noble track. I never ask how far ahead he quailed; For he and I grew foemen when he failed. Onward I move, with this to cheer my mind: No one as yet has passed me from behind. I must not sit beside a lulling stream Unless it flows toward my dearest dream. 147 I must not wince, when going past the farms, If Colin hold his milkmaid in his arms. The perfect eyes are those that cannot shine Their best till fed confusedly by mine. Suppose I live three heartbeats in their sight Before they melt to light concealed by light; Shall those not seem three ages of desire So paid as Love can never pay with fire? 'T is a long lane that has no turning. True. How long the lane that somewhere turns to youl NoBMAN Gale THE BIRTH OF PIERROT Was it a bird that sang? — Was it the plash Of silvery water — that awakened me ? — It seemed that at the dark wood's edge, some flaah Of moonlight set my soul from prison free; And all the grim primeval memories Of cruel strife, of loveless hearts that groped, In caves and gloom, shook off some long disease And, springing forth, my heart took flower, and hoped. 148 Now down the world I run — a fugitive, Tapping in snows upon your window-pane, Or laughing in the sunlit showers, that give The April blossoms to the hills again. I am half faun, half angel, butterfly! — The lover sees me flitting o'er the hiU — Ah! well he knows it is no flower — but I, Pierrot — the springtime with its thrill! She at her casement leaning hears my song A-whisper down the trellis, rose to rose: I am the moonbeam there that lingers long To light his face in dreams to her repose. Yea — I am all the wit, and laughter faint Of all the world! — the gleam of life and art — Prince Fantasy — the sinner, and the saint — The child-philosopher in every heart! Passing, I yet remain in memory So all I touch again grows glad and young; My blossom-wand I wave — again shall be The dance of youths and maids, and music sung! Thomas Walsh 149 SONGS FOR FRAGOLETTA I Fraqoletta, blessed one, What think you of the light of the sun? Do you think the dark was best, Lying snug in mother's breast? Ahl I knew that sweetness, too, Fragoletta, before you! But, Fragoletta, now you're bom, You must learn to love the mom, Love the lovely working light. Love the miracle of sight. Love the thousand things to do — Little girl, I envy you! — Love the thousand things to see. Love your mother, and — love me! And some night, Fragoletta, soon, I'll take you out to see the moon; And for the first time, child of ours. You shall — think of it! — look on flowers, And smell them, too, if you are good. And hear the green leaves in the wood Talking, talking, all together In the happy windy weather; And if the journey's not too far For little limbs so lately made, ISO Limb upon limb like petals laid, We'll go and picnic in a star. II Blue eyes looking up at me, I wonder what you really see, Lying in your cradle there, Fragrant as a branch of myrrh. Helpless little hands and feet, so helpless! so sweet! Tiny tongue that cannot talk, Tiny feet that cannot walk, Nothing of you that can do Aught, except those eyes of blue. How they open, how they close 1 Eyelids of the baby-rose, Open and shut, so blue, so wise. Baby-eyelids, baby-eyes. in That, Fragoletta, is the rain Beating upon the window-pane; But lo! the golden sun appears, To kiss away the window's tears. That, Fragoletta, is the wind That rattles so the window-blind; 151 And yonder shining thing's a star, Blue eyes, — you seem ten times as far. That, Fragoletta, is a bird That speaks, yet never says a word; Upon a cherry-tree it sings. Simple as all mysterious things; Its Uttle life to peck and pipe As long as cherries ripe and ripe, And minister unto the need Of baby-birds that feed and feed. This, Fragoletta, is a flower. Open and fragrant for an hour, A flower, a transitory thing, Each petal fleeting as a wing. All a May morning blows and blows. And then for everlasting goes. IV Blue eyes, against the whiteness pressed Of Uttle mother's hallowed breast. The while your trembling lips are fed. Look up at mother's bended head, All benediction over you — O blue eyes looking into bluel Fragoletta is so small, We wonder that she lives at all — lfi2 Tiny alabaster girl, Hardly bigger than a pearl; That is why we take such care, Lest someone nins away with her. RiCHABD Le GALUHNNB SONG FROM GITANJALI Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high; Where knowledge is free; Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls; Where words come out from the depth of truth; Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection; Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit; Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action — Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country Rabindbanath Taoobe 103 FIRST SIGHT I WAS born again to-day I I was fashioned newl Now my heart is fresh with May Virginal as dew! What it was I cannot tell. Something on my eyes Exquisitely breathed and fell And I grew more wise. Goldenly it breathed and kissed Now the world is plain — All the glories I had missed In shine and air and rain. Just a little while before It was all disguised. Now the earth seems so much more That I am surprised. I could touch and hold and kiss Everything I see! Say then, was it always this, Waiting just for me? 164 Oh, to think that yesterday It was shining so Yet my poor heart could delay And my eyes said no I Anna Hempstead Branch THE AIM I SHALL walk freely yet Who am beset With burrs, and brambles clinging, And flowers on either hand Where I stand Which I pluck, singing. And my steep road forget. I shall not roam, nor stay, Nor weep, nor play Though beckon tears and laughter. Dreams and desires may ride Far and wide, And bid me follow after. But I shall go my way. The little loves that bind I shall leave behind, 1S5 Careless of hate or pleading, No hand shall stay my feet, However sweet. I must go on still speeding My highest height to find. Irene BrrrHEBFOBD McLeod VOICES All day with anxious heart and wondering ear I listened to the city; heard the ground Echo with human thunder, and the soimd Go reeling down the streets and disappear. The headlong hours, in their wild career, Shouted and sang until the world was drowned With babel-voices, each one more profound. . . . All day it surged — but nothing could I hear. That night the country never seemed so still; The trees and grasses spoke without a word To stars that brushed them with their silver wings. Together with the moon I climbed the hill. And, in the very heart of Silence, heard The speech and music of immortal things. Louis Untebmeteb 166 A GREETING Good-morning, Life — and all Things glad and beautiful. My pockets nothing hold, But he that owns the gold, The Sun, is my great friend — His spending has no end. Hail to the morning sky. Which bright clouds measure high; Hail to you birds whose throats Would number leaves by notes; Hail to you shady bowers, And you green fields of flowers, Hail to you women fair, That make a show so rare In cloth as white as milk — Be't caUco or silk; Good-morning, Life — and all Things glad and beautiful. William H. Davibs 167 "WE YET CAN TRIUMPH" We yet can triumph. We have tried and faii'd And tried again and faii'd again and tried. Many a time I've wish'd that I had died Before I saw the Ught. But though I quail'd, Yet have I stubbornly my fate assail'd With dazed determination, dignified With prayer and gratitude, and always cried Thy will be done, O God I And God prevaii'd. We cannot always choose: it were not best: God knows; and if we trust all will be well. I pray it with shut eyes and open mind: I want, be it with all my soul attest. Nothing that will not ultimately tell To the eternal good of all mankind! Fattl SmvEUi A ROAD SONG It's — Oh, for the hills, where the wind's some one With a vagabond foot that follows! And a cheer-up hand that he claps upon Your arm with the hearty words, "Come on! We'll soon be out of the hollows, My heart! We'll soon be out